No Blemish But The Mind
by sweetntwenty
Summary: The moment Sherlock falls from the roof of St. Bart's, John Watson is warped onto the USS Enterprise. Moriarty is loose aboard the ship, and the Enterprise crew has just captured the criminal Khan - whose face is oddly similar to that of Sherlock Holmes. John is trapped in the future, playing one last game with the psychopath who murdered his best friend and the life they once led.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings for: Alcohol, swearing, violence, sex, adult themes**

Sweat trickles down John's neck, pooling beneath his hairline and collecting in the collar of his shirt. The sun is blinding, but he doesn't shield his eyes as he looks skyward - can't move his arms, with the way he's got one frozen and clutching his phone to his ear, and the other clenching and trembling at his side.

Up on the roof of St. Bart's is Sherlock - funny, John thinks, because this is where they met, and now they've come full circle.

"He won't get away with this. Sherlock, Mycroft is on your side, Molly is on your side, Mrs. Hudson is on your side, _I'm_ on your side-"

"I lied about the whole thing, John! I made up Moriarty, I hired Richard Brook. It was all an act." Sherlock takes a deep breath, but John won't let him finish.

"Damn it, Sherlock! Don't let this get to you! We can get through this, you and I."

How John wishes Sherlock would scoff at this last remark, at the idea that another person could influence his own self-confidence, at the idea that John could possibly help him with something personal. All those moments that John flinched when Sherlock dismissed his attempts at connection; what he wouldn't give now for one more eye-roll, one more toss of his perpetually disheveled hair.

But there is no reply.

"Come down," John says into the phone.

"No," Sherlock replies, his voice odd and tinny through the cheap speakers.

"Get down," John says, but it's a sorry attempt at authority. Sherlock was never one to obey orders to begin with.

"Please," John tries again, and there's a flare of static on the other end. Is Sherlock... crying?

"You're being an idiot!" John shouts. "Who cares about what they're saying? You're real. I know you are. You're real to me."

And shouldn't that be enough?

But he can see Sherlock shaking his head, notices with a punch of fear to the gut that his best friend in the universe is toeing ever closer to the edge of the roof.

"Don't," John says warningly. "I swear to god, Sherlock, don't-"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock's saying. "John, I'm sorry-"

Sherlock jerks the phone away from his ear and lets it plummet one, two, three- _eight_ stories towards the pavement. His arms stretch outward and for a moment the clouds part and the sun flares behind him; he is a veritable guardian angel on the roof of St. Bart's and John can't tear his eyes away.

"Sherlock," John calls hoarsely, but his words fall on deaf ears. Sherlock's phone is shattered on the cement, but John can't seem to let go of his own. "Sherlock!" he yells. "Don't! Whatever you're doing, just don't-"

Up on the rooftop, Sherlock is shaking his head. He's made his decision.

And Sherlock Holmes jumps, his coat flailing in the wind, limbs outstretched, and John's phone finally slips from his fingers, and Sherlock is inches from the ground-

A strangled scream rips from John's throat. He knows he's too late but he runs to Sherlock anyway, feet pounding across molten pavement, arms out as if he dared catch him-

Suddenly, electricity skitters along his fingertips, crackles across his bones and lodges beneath his skin. It's high noon and every breath he takes is a laborious one. He feels as if his body is being torn in two, every ligament stretched at the seams and all of his cells being forced to dissect at once.

Trauma-induced shock, the doctor in the back of his head notes, and when he goes blind it convinces him that it's just another part of the process.

* * *

"Sherlock- Sherlock-"

John collides into something sharp and heavy, and around him there is the sound of glass shattering. He realizes he's on the floor- not concrete, too smooth and cold for that- and someone's screaming at him.

They've got a Scottish accent, whoever it is. Can't really tell, with the sun flaring so violently, and everything coated with static. John feels nauseous. His whole body aches, his muscles feel strained, and exhaustion consumes him, reducing him to lying prostrate on the floor.

The Scot's still yelling, and John finally pieces together the words.

"What the hell? Who the hell are you?"

"But... I... Sherlock..." John mumbles to himself. His chest constricts painfully, and breathing feels like forcing air through a bellows.

"Shlock?! Shlock the wot?" A balding man with a round face bursts from the bright lights- not the sun, John notices, but harsh fluorescent bulbs. John finally focuses his eyes and is met with the barrel of a gun. His hands instinctively shoot into the air; if nothing else, John has been trained for situations like this.

"I- where am I?"

" 'Where are ye-?' Who the fuck are you?"

"Dr. John Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," he says breathlessly. Some bits of information are just ingrained.

"'Captain'?" the balding Scotsman repeats. "By whose authority have you boarded this ship?"

"SCOTTY!"

An American accent this time. The lights still in his eyes, John shuffles awkwardly on the floor, trying to haul himself to his feet. Scattered around him are sharp metal instruments he cannot name, and to his left lies an upended red toolbox. John's ribs ache and he can already imagine the bruises; he must have run right into it.

"Jesus, Scotty, where'd you pick this one up?"

John flinches as a harassed-looking man in a blue shirt bustles in past the one called Scotty to push him firmly into a chair, shine a flashlight in his eyes, and shove a little machine up his shirt.

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Scotty protests, glancing over at John apprehensively. "'E just swooped in!"

"Excuse me-" John begins.

"He could have flamonidas dysentery, do you know that?" the angry one in blue growls. He squints at the results on his machine, then pulls out what John supposes is some kind of stethoscope, only to proceed to stuff it into his nose. "Or Sicorzhan gangrene!"

"Could you please not-" John tries again.

"-I once heard about a whole ship that came down with it and by the time anyone could warp towards a hospital half the crew's dicks were already rotting off-"

"Get off m-"

"Out of the way!"

The one prodding at John with what he now figures are medical devices sends a death glare over his shoulder.

"Jim, stay back, I still haven't cleared him for Gamma Ten tonsillitis-"

"Knock it off, Bones," the man called Jim orders.

To John's surprise, Bones sighs and obeys.

"Scotty," Jim says, "Care to explain yourself?"

"Captain- I-" Scotty stammers.

Jim's attention snaps to John. "Who the hell are you, and why are you on my ship?"

"That's what I was tellin' 'im! You don't just _board_ the USS Enterprise without some kind of clearance!" Scotty interjects defensively.

John looks between them in confusion. "Ship? Is this a submarine?" Has to be, right? With those clinically white, sloped walls, glass doors, and odd little panels?

Bones snorts and Jim gives John the strangest of looks, as if he isn't sure whether to yell or simply ask if this is all a big joke.

"Wrong end of the universe, mate," Scotty pipes up.

"I think my great-grandfather once rode in a submarine," Bones adds. "Hold on, Jim, I'm going to check him for-"

"No," John says firmly, knocking Bones' hands away. "No more of that! I'm not diseased!"

"Oh? Where are you from?" Bones demands. "I'll have you know that over 75% of the population of this quadrant has had Maeglian fleas-"

"I believe fleas will be the least of our worries if we are _this_ susceptible to strangers warping aboard our vessel, Doctor."

John starts in his chair at the sight of dark hair and a slender figure whose movements speak of calculated grace, whose eyes hold the keenest sense of control and understanding-

"Spock! There you are!" Jim says, and that breaks the spell.

This man with the rigid haircut and the strange, pointy ears is Spock, not...

"Sherlock," John gasps to himself.

"What?" Jim says.

"Sherlock!" And then John remembers everything. Escaping from being arrested by Lestrade, dashing handcuffed together through London at night, seeing Sherlock on the roof of the hospital and watching him dive-

"He's hyperventilating," someone's saying, as the room slides out of focus and begins to darken.

Jim is shouting orders, and John is dimly aware of losing his balance and sagging off his chair. Jim ducks under his arm, lifting him before he can slump to the floor, and in the back of his head he muses that Jim is strangely young and handsome to be a captain.

* * *

They're waiting for John when he wakes.

"-dressed in civies," Jim is saying to Spock. "But Scotty said he's a captain."

"Are you suggesting espionage?" Spock replies calmly.

"He's not recorded anywhere in Starfleet's database. Sulu checked twice."

"Suspicious indeed."

"Ah! You're up!" Jim exclaims when John stirs. "Watson, is it?"

"_Doctor _Watson," John replies snippily. He slides off the bare cot they'd thrown him on, shaking out his stiff limbs. "And who are _you?" _

Jim chuckles, but Spock stares John down, expression tightly controlled, with his arms behind his back.

"Now, _Doctor_, would you kindly explain to us _how the fuck_ you got onto my ship?"

"Ship? Where are you sailing?" John asks.

Jim glances at Spock uncertainly.

"What?" John says. "What's wrong?"

"I believe the Captain is simply amused with your use of rather... archaic vocabulary," Spock replies.

"Sailing!" Jim says. "That's funny, though. Haven't really thought about it that way."

"I don't understand," John says.

"We are _flying_, Doctor," Spock says. " 'Sailing' implies that we are travelling through a body of water rather than a vacuum."

"A vac-" To John's left is a window, and beyond it is nothing but black.

They're joking, aren't they? This is all a sick prank-

"Catch him, Spock!"

"-no, no, I'm fine," John insists, shooing him away. He's feeling rather lightheaded, a little sickly, but he isn't keen on falling unconscious yet again in a room full of strangers. "It's just- you said- Starfleet, right? _Star_fleet?"

Outside the window, embedded among the black, are pinpricks of light he didn't notice before.

"Space," John says, putting two and two together. "We're in space."

"...you're not from around here, are you?" Jim ventures.

"I am now inclined to return to my first hypothesis: he is not a captain as he claims. Perhaps he is lying about his name as well," Spock says.

"I'm not lying!" John exclaims. "I'm John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers-"

"A convincing story, Doctor, but we are not fools. The Fusiliers have been disbanded for nearly 200 years."

Behind Spock's tightly controlled expression is an infuriating smugness that makes John want to rip off the tips of his pointy ears.

"I- I-"

"John Watson, if that is indeed your name, how did you manage to warp onto our vessel?" Spock says.

"I don't know!" John says. "One minute I was in London, waiting outside St. Bart's for my friend-"

_Sherlock. _

"Oh no," John says. He remembers now. Sherlock on the roof- "Oh no. No, no no-"

"London?" Jim demands sharply, "What the hell were you doing there?"

"Captain, he appears to be going into shock."

"I can see that, Spock," Jim replies exasperatedly. "Doctor Watson, you alright? Do you want me to grab my CMO?"

"No- don't need- Sherlock, get Sherlock- before he-"

"Scotty informed me that he mentioned the name several times after warping," Spock says.

"Who's Sherlock?" Jim asks. "John, breathe. I need you to stay with me. Breathe."

"Tr-trying, he just-"

"John, who's Sherlock?" Jim asks firmly.

Spock's watching John without a trace of emotion, and John thinks about how much he resembles Sherlock right now, when the consulting detective was more machine than man-

"-you look like him," John says. He accepts Jim's hand on his shoulder, letting it ground him. "It's odd. You look just like him."

"Like who?"

"Not you," John replies. "Spock. He looks like Spock."

"Well, I assure you that our Spock's one of a kind." Jim's talking to John slowly, patiently, like he's a child. He tries not to resent it.

"No." John shakes his head. "It's the way he holds himself. It's the look on his face that's constantly showing off that he knows something you don't. That bastard. Stupid, stubborn bastard."

"Looks like he's got you down, doesn't he?" Jim grins at Spock.

"Me... or perhaps someone else aboard this ship."

For the first time, John sees a glimmer of curiosity in Spock's eyes.

"What exactly does your friend look like?" Spock asks.

John glances at Jim, who nods in encouragement.

"Dark hair," John says, throat dry. "Tall and scarecrow-thin. Cheekbones you could cut yourself on. And... clever. Always clever."

Spock's lips purse into a tight line. "Captain."

Jim glances back, and silent agreement passes between them. He nods.

"Doctor Watson," Spock says, "you are under arrest."

"What?!" John steps back, aghast. "Why-"

"We have reason to believe that you are connected to a high profile intergalactic criminal accused of the conspiracy and execution of terrorist attacks on London."

"You've got to be kidding-" John starts furiously.

"Watch it, Doc," Jim says. His jaw is set, and he reaches for his gun.

"London? I was just there!" John exclaims. "What happened?"

"People died, Doctor," Spock says simply.

Jim points his gun right between John's eyes, and Spock signals to someone behind them. A security guard steps into the room, handcuffs clinking at his waist.

"I don't know anything about that!" John protests. He looks pleadingly at Jim, and the captain seems to hesitate, glancing at Spock for affirmation. Spock, however, does not break his steely gaze.

Resignedly, John accepts the handcuffs the guard slaps around his wrists and follows him out of the room. His mind races; what the hell happened in London?

There's a distracting little twittering ahead. It's the guard, singing under his breath. But it's a tune John knows, a song he's certainly heard before...

"_Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother-"_

"Is that 'Stayin' Alive'?" John asks incredulously.

"You recognize it?" A familiar drawling voice responds. "Funny, no one else here does."

John's blood runs cold. It can't be. It's not possible.

"You're-"

"Richard Brook." The guard finishes the thought for him, turning around with a lazy grin. "Also known as Jim Moriarty."

* * *

John stops in his tracks, acutely aware that he possesses neither a weapon nor even a free hand. How the hell could this be happening? Apparently he's been beamed onto a bloody spaceship; how could Moriarty be there too?

"Oh, come on," Moriarty coos. "Don't want to raise their suspicion, do you?"

John swings his bound fists. They connect with the side of Moriarty's head, but the criminal recovers immediately and sends a punch into John's gut. John doubles over, but Moriarty hauls him roughly to his feet. He tries again, and Moriarty swats him away like a fly.

"You're a liar and a criminal and a murderer-" John starts angrily.

"_Accused_ liar, criminal and murderer," he corrects. "All charges were dropped, remember?"

"Once they find out-"

"Oh, will _you_ tell them?" Moriarty laughs. "The 300-year-old 'Captain' who beamed onto their ship without permission? The batshit-crazy Methuselah currently being escorted to a holding cell?"

"Well, what about you?" Not the greatest comeback, but his unadulterated hatred for the man has made him tongue-tied.

"Oh, John," Moriarty says smugly, "I've been a guard on this ship for five years. I've been with them through thick and thin, I've comforted them when they cried... Hell, I've watched them get so shit-faced they couldn't see, heard them spill their their deepest, darkest secrets, and brought them ginger ale in the morning. Like they'll believe the five-minute man over their beloved Yeoman Brook. Now for God's sake, follow me unless you want more trouble."

John, still stuttering with ire, yields and trails after Moriarty through the winding white-paneled halls of the ship. His heart's now racing in addition to his mind.

"What the hell are you doing here?" John manages through gritted teeth.

"Oh, it's no coincidence." Moriarty walks tall and confidently ahead of John, his slimy voice emanating from a certainly smug expression. John wishes he could see Moriarty's face. Wishes he could punch it, or better yet, take a crowbar and- "Let's just say that you ought to be _thanking _me for this opportunity. Not many can say they've experienced the luxury of time travel."

"_Time_ travel?!"

"Well, obviously. Johnny boy, open your fucking eyes and look around. Has Sherlock taught you nothing?"

John begins to feel the gravity of the situation: the sudden move from the street to space, the confusion of the crewmembers, the attacks on London...

John's stunned into silence. "..._How?" _he asks finally.

"It's really not that difficult once you 'familiarize yourself with the technology'," Moriarty says, "I mean, if the bastard in the control room can do it-"

"What year is it?"

"2273 AD. Exactly 261 years from where I left you. And you're awfully lucky, the first experiments with time travel blew up dozens of people."

John rolls his eyes. "_Lucky._ Yeah, I'd say my current situation shows nothing but a bright future-"

"I also doubt that many can say they're witnessed a friend return from the dead," Moriarty continues, "or at least partially return-"

"What the hell have you done with Sherlock?"

"All in time, impatient one. Here, we've reached home, sweet home." He presses a button next to a tinted glass door, which slides open, revealing a small room. "In you go."

John enters reluctantly. "You won't get away with whatever it is you've done. Not this time."

Moriarty sneers and presses the button again, closing the door. A small opening is revealed in its center. "Handcuffs, please."

John sticks his hands out, anxious to prove his courage and confidence in Sherlock; but he wonders to himself if there's even a Sherlock left to defend.

Moriarty removes the handcuffs from John's wrists, massaging his palms with an aggressive mock-sensuality. John yanks his hands back in disgust, which only causes Moriarty's manic smile to turn into peals of laughter.

"You think you're so brave," he whispers with glee. "So loyal, I admit it's really rather touching. But my dear Doctor Watson, may I remind you that you're alone in a jail cell 300 years in the future with no friends to come to your aid? And what's worse..." He trails off.

John begrudgingly takes the bait. "What?"

"I have access to Sherlock. Or what's left of him, rather. I'd advise you not to make me too angry. You see, I put a lot of effort into this part of the game, and I'd hate to end it early and start from scratch. Sherlock was always my favorite opponent... but you are most definitely rising up the list."

Moriarty backs away from the door slowly, seeming to disappear into the darkness cast by the glass' tint. "Your move, John."

And he's gone.

* * *

John sits on his bunk in his clinically white cell, his breath stuttering, desperately willing himself not to pass out again.

Beneath the soles of his shoes, the Enterprise is humming.

The Enterprise. The _spaceship _called the Enterprise-

"Oh God," John wails. "Oh God."

He paces back and forth. He's got to get out. One way or another, he's getting off this ship. The next time they dock- is that what spaceships do?- he'll connive his way out. Break a few wrists, if he has to, steal someone's gun...

There's a single window in his cell, the diameter about the width of his shoulders. He grips the rim and presses his face against the glass.

Nothing.

Outside is an emptiness that stretches on into eternity. He's gazing at the universe in its purest, most unadulterated form. They are travelling through the remnants of worlds, reduced to ash millenias in the past, and through the breeding grounds for galaxies that will emerge long after they are gone. Most frightening of all, they are travelling through _nothing, _and he is centuries ahead of his time, and everyone he knows and loves is _dead_-

Mind reeling, he clamps a hand over his mouth, fighting the urge to vomit. He counts sets of 4, then 8, then 4 again when he trusts himself to lower his hand. The glass is cold against his forehead, and if he stands motionless he can feel the ship vibrating ever so quietly.

...it's all so preposterous, really, if he thinks about it.

It's a flat fact: time travel's impossible. If the technology existed in any form, Sherlock would have mentioned it. Would have pursued it on his own, probably, out of some kind of arrogant belief that he could alter the past and thus improve their present and future. Sounds just like the sort of thing he'd do.

The idea of a spaceship's partially credible, but John still hasn't seen the ship itself yet, just a few lab-bright hallways and fancy glass doors. Spock's ears were a curiosity, but there's a thing called prosthetics.

Then there was Moriarty.

What if the entire thing's just a ruse? Another of those infuriating games the consulting criminal's so damn fond of?

"Drive me into insanity, will he?" John mutters to himself. As if ruining Sherlock's career wasn't enough. As if compelling him to take his own life wasn't-

John doesn't know how, but he stumbles onto the cot before he can collapse.

Damn that Kirk, with his good-cop attitude, and that Spock with his stupid, pointy (and surely artificial) ears. They're just paid, highly-trained actors. Richard Brook's, the lot of them.

_Time travel? _He lets out a harsh bark of laughter for allowing himself to believe for even a moment that such a thing could ever be true. Moriarty's probably got him locked up in a tin can in a dark warehouse. Maybe, once he gets bored of the "Starfleet" charade, he'll strap some bombs on him, only this time John will be ready, and he'll drag the bastard to hell with him-

"Excuse me!"

John jumps and curses.

There's a young man in a gold shirt, gold like Kirk's, crouching by his door.

John eyes him warily. "What do you want?"

"Well, sir," the man continues, with the heaviest Russian accent John has ever heard, "I just wanted to see how you were doing!"

...he's joking, right?

"How much is he paying you?" John demands.

"What?"

"How much is Moriarty paying you?" John roars, but if the name means anything to him, he doesn't show it.

The young man looks around worriedly. "Quiet, please! I don't want anyone to know I'm here."

"Why's that?" John growls, crossing his arms.

He looks flustered at this. "Technically, you _are _our prisoner, and as an Ensign I really should not be-"

"-let me out," John snaps, not caring, and certainly not looking to be buttered up by a pretty face, no doubt planted by Moriarty. "Now!"

"Please-"

With a shout, John slams against the door. It's made of glass, or so he thinks, and it ought to shatter- but instead, he's punished with a shoulder full of bruises and a ringing in his ears.

"Unbreakable," the young man says. "To you, at least."

"What the fuck do you want?" John asks again, ears hot with embarrassment.

"My name is Pavel Chekov," the ensign replies brightly, "and I wanted to ask you how exactly you warped onto our ship!"

"How many times do I have to tell you bastards that I don't know?" He could strangle the kid right now, break his lying bones and dump the body at Spock's feet.

"Please do not take it the wrong way, sir-"

"Doctor," John interjects.

"Doctor," Chekov repeats eagerly, "but I was _wery _impressed!"

"...what?"

With a grin, Chekov sidles as close as he can against the door, all smiles, as if John's a celebrity. "There is only one person with the formula to achieve such a thing. And that is Scotty!"

He must mean the red shirt who pointed the gun before he'd even found his bearings.

"Where did you study?" Chekov asks before he can take his next breath. "MIT? New Delhi? Aberdeen?"

"I-"

"It is quite an anomaly to meet another expert in warp technology, let alone one who is _also _a man of medicine!"

When John merely stares at Chekov, the kid's smile falters, and for a second he almost feels guilty.

"Have I upset you, sir?" Chekov asks.

"Upset? You're asking if I'm _upset_?" John growls darkly. "Today I got interrogated by an overgrown elf, handcuffed and thrown into an oversized closet, and I just found out that the maniac who practically murdered my best friend is trying to play one last mind game by convincing me that I'm on a spaceship. In the future."

"But you _are_," Chekov replies.

"Fuck off."

"But you are!"

"What did Moriarty promise you?" John asks coldly. "Money? Power? Women?"

"Moriarty?" Chekov wrinkles his nose in confusion. "Who is Moriarty?"

"You listen here, you son of a bitch," John says, balling his hands into fists as if he dares strike Chekov down through the glass. "I don't know shit about 'warping' and even if I did I wouldn't tell _you _how I did it. So you're going to let me out right now so I can strangle that fucking l-" But now the poor kid's looking at him as if he just told him that there's no such thing as Santa Claus, and that little light of excitement is gone, replaced by growing hesitation. "...you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" John tries again, softer this time.

Chekov shakes his head.

"Oh God." John slides to the floor and rubs at his eyes tiredly.

"...I understand that being arrested can be a stressful experience," Chekov says timidly, settling cross-legged on the floor to meet John's eye-level. "Are you hungry? I have gotten quite good at replicating stew."

It almost pisses John off, the way he can't quite figure Chekov out. Chekov's smiling again- trying to, at least, no thanks to John scaring the shit out of him- and he's fiddling with the embroidery on his sleeves.

Harmless.

The kid is harmless.

John can feel it in his gut.

Feeling embarrassed, he clears his throat. "How old are you?" he asks.

"Nineteen, sir."

"That's, ah, that's quite young to be an officer, isn't it?"

"Wery." He grins toothily.

"Can I ask you some things, Chekov?" Because as genuinely clueless as Chekov may seem, it doesn't rule out that being on a spaceship is almost as believable as Sherlock surviving jumping off a-

Ah. Best not to think about that.

"Of course," the ensign replies eagerly, and John can practically see his ears perking up.

"...I'm not from here," John says with some difficulty. He focuses on exhaling.

Chekov nods, wide-eyed.

"The ears," John blurts out, although he's got a hundred-and-one questions buzzing about in his head. "Spock's ears. They're fake, right? Plastic? Or was he deformed at birth?"

"Fake?" Chekov laughs. "They're not _fake. _He's a Wulcan!"

"Wulcan?"

"Oh, um..." Chekov scrunches his nose in concentration. "_Vulcan_," he manages over his accent.

"So... an alien."

"That is one way of looking at it. Although, as you noticed, they are quite humanoid."

"And are all Vulcans that much of a stick in the mud?"

Chekov giggles at that, and the sound puts John more at ease. "Yes. Unfortunately. They do not believe in expressing emotions. They have them, although they like to deny it."

"Spock must be a real gem, then."

"You do not like him."

"Reminds me of-" Ah. Nope. Best not to go there. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

"Of course not!"

John believes him.

"So... What Spock said about people dying in London. Is that true?"

Chekov's eager face falls. "Yes, Doctor. A man blew up an important intelligence agency, and attacked Starfleet's headquarters. It was horrible." The simplicity of Chekov's statement unnerves John; this soldier - no, he's too young for that title - this _boy_ can barely comprehend the attack. John's heard such terse comments in PTSD wards, from Afghanistan vets; such an attack would explain why they've been treating him so coldly on the Enterprise.

"Oh," he responds, unsure of what to say. "Why did he do that?"

"He is mad."

John looks down at his feet, the scuffed shoes so often pitied by Mrs. Hudson. A feeling of homesickness overwhelms him - he'd give anything to be back in his flat, sipping tea and listening to Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock bickering about the housekeeping.

"That doesn't make sense," he says shaking his head. "I was just there. I would have heard-"

"Docter, I apologize, but for mastering warp technology in such an advanced manner, you seem to be having a hard time understanding what is going on in the world," Chekov says, "This is the USS Enterprise, year 2273. I doubt you are from this place and time, yes?"

"Yes, but..."

"Time travel is not impossible, Doctor. Improbable, but it has happened before."

John nods.

Chekov turns suddenly, looking down the corridor outside John's cell.

"What is it?"

"Guards. I must not be here. Goodbye, Doctor Watson!" Chekov waves and scurries off.

John presses his face against the glass to watch Chekov disappear around a corner. His head snaps towards the sound of footsteps.

Four guards bearing large guns lead a prisoner, his hands cuffed and his eyes glaring, and four others bring up the rear. Who they're guarding- No, it couldn't be-

"Sherlock," John breathes to himself.

But in the split second that Sherlock marches past his door, John can see that only his body is present; the gait, posture and defiant expression belong to someone else.

"Sherlock!" John shouts, pounding on the glass, but the procession is gone as suddenly as it had arrived. The corridor is empty and silent, and he wonders if it had existed at all.

He collapses defeatedly onto his bunk. Every cell in his body aches with a pain he's never felt before. His eyes close, and there he is again, on the sidewalk in front of St. Bart's. He hears Sherlock's voice crying "I'm sorry," he sees that bloody coat flailing like a cape as Sherlock falls, he feels the pounding of his own feet on pavement as he rushes across the street to the huddled mass...

Curling up with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, John is acutely aware of how far away he is from home.


	2. Chapter 2

When John wakes, the ship is still humming.

He lies still on his cot, eyes closed, flexing each individual finger and toe, systematically contracting and relaxing the muscles in his arms, then his legs...

It's a trick he's used before to combat stress. Usually he does it on a restless night to help him sleep- funny, he hasn't done it in a while, not since he moved in with Sherlock- and he eases up. A bit. His body is still exhausted from the forced warping, and his headache is stubbornly lingering.

He lets his arm slip off the cot, his fingers brushing the floor. He can feel the Enterprise softly sing to him through the tiles.

To be honest, he's afraid to open his eyes. With his eyes closed, it's almost like he's back in his Baker Street flat, nodding off on the couch by the mantle while Sherlock paces and rails. He can pretend he's in the safety of his living room with Sherlock close by, typing furiously and muttering half to John, half to himself, and the humming is just that blasted radiator that they meant to get fixed last fall.

But John is thinking too hard, and instead of drifting off, he becomes restless. Begrudgingly, he opens his eyes.

Waking up means accepting his cramped cell, with its bare toilet, sink, and flimsy chair. The lightbulb above him blinks weakly. He rolls onto his side, gazing out his only window at the star-studded black, and sighs. There's no escaping this.

He sits up and stretches, straining his pained muscles and yawning widely. The corridor outside his cell is empty, and he can hear neither voices nor footsteps. He resigns himself to urinating, washing his face and splashing water on his hair in an attempt to make it lie flat. Then, he considers the facts as he knows them.

One, he is on a spaceship in the future, light-years away from London. Two, Moriarty has something to do with it. And three, Sherlock is there with him. Or whoever it was that had walked past his cell.

The boy last night- Chekov, was it?- seemed so earnest, so honest, and so completely unaware of Moriarty; perhaps the rest of the crew are the same way. Their priority seems to be this terrorist attack in London, and none of them had gone out of their way to make him uncomfortable. Only Moriarty plays mind games involving Sherlock; the others didn't even seem to recognize the detective's name. Even though Sherlock would probably disapprove, John decides to keep an open mind about the crew.

Sherlock. John sighs, and once again sits down on his cot, head in his hands. The only proof that the fall off St. Bart's hadn't killed him was a look-a-like prisoner on board the Enterprise. Moriarty is not to be trusted, that's for certain, but John has to get to that man and find out if he was-

Real?

John can't explain it, but despite the uncanny physical appearance there is no way in hell that prisoner is Sherlock. John knows his best friend, and that wasn't him. The gait was wrong, for one thing. Sherlock had a complete disregard for the people and things around him; this prisoner's seeming hatred for his surroundings was so palpable it made John flinch. Sherlock would absentmindedly climb over furniture to get where he wanted; the doppelganger expected the seas to part before his feet...

And then John remembers the furniture.

John hated the way Sherlock would step all over the couch. With his shoes on too, leaving trails of dirt and dust like a bloody cat. Whenever John complained, Sherlock would only smirk derisively in response.

John shuts his eyes, feeling dizzy. To never see that smirk again...

No. Stop it. Don't-

A knock on the glass door startles him.

"Doctor Watson? You alright in there?" Captain Kirk peers into his cell expectantly. Spock stands behind him.

"Yes, yes." John jumps to his feet. Spock's eyes are cold and emotionless, as unsympathetic as the day they met. He glares back.

"Get enough sleep?" Kirk asks.

"Sure, yeah," he replies stiffly.

"How are you feeling?"

Kirk's questions are loaded, without a doubt. He's a bit hesitant, scanning John for signs of madness or wrath, looking for a reason not to open the door.

"I'm alright."

Kirk nods, and glances at Spock for confirmation before opening the door. John silently wonders why a captain would need permission from his second-in-command so often.

The door closes behind the two men, and Kirk sits in the chair across from John's cot. He motions for John to sit down as well.

"Sorry to lock you away like this, Doc, but until you're fully cleared we can't risk you roaming the ship. Make sense?"

"Yes, I understand, but-"

"But nothing, Doctor," Spock interrupts. "We've decided on a few protocols that will prove to us your level of risk as an unregistered civilian riding aboard a military vessel."

John's eyebrows furrow. Protocols? If these are anything like the medical tests that irritable doctor tried to administer on him yesterday...

"Spock just means that we're going to observe you and keep guards on you for a while. Figure things out kind of organically." Kirk leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.

So he's the easy-going type. It's uncommon for a man of his rank, but John supposes it has to do with his age.

"Alright. When do I get to leave my cell?"

"That is the matter we are here to discuss, Doctor," Spock says, eyeing Kirk's casual pose with obvious disapproval. "We would like you to talk to the prisoner we have on board. The terrorist responsible for the attacks on London."

John looks back and forth between the two. "But I wasn't there, I mean, I don't know anything about it, or-"

"That's alright, we just want to see how Khan reacts to you," Kirk replies reassuringly.

"Khan?"

"Khan, also known as John Harrison, is an engineered superhuman created around your time. Since the two of you were both in London in the early 2000's, we thought introductions might be in order." Spock is still studying him closely. John shifts uncomfortably under his gaze.

"Okay... I guess I could try and talk to him. But what do I say?"

"Anything goes, Doc. Anything this bastard says might be useful at some point." Kirk's eyes lock on John's own, and the earnestness Chekov had exuded last night is mirrored there.

John nods. They stand, Spock pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and snapping them around John's wrists.

He follows them out of the cell, straining his neck to look down corridors for a glimpse of Moriarty or Sherlock. But they have only turned two corners when they stop in front of a cell, much larger than John's. Facing away from them is a slender profile in black, contrasting against the starkness of the cell walls.

For the first time, John sees Kirk's amiable demeanor crack. "Khan," Kirk says bluntly.

The man turns, and John's stomach drops. It's the prisoner he saw the night before.

"Sherlock!" John shouts, throwing himself against the glass. Damn this morning's doubts. Every inch of the man inside the cell is Sherlock. Every feature on his face, every jutting bone on his lithe frame, the stormy color of his eyes... Disregarding his hair, they're absolutely identical.

Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Sherlock said that once, and that's all John can think of now. It's Sherlock. It has to be.

"Sherlock," he pleads.

The man stares back.

And that is when John senses that as eerily flawless of a copy this man is, there's something missing.

"Captain," the man says in a rumbling baritone.

John's heart skips a beat. He knows that voice. Knows it as well as the back of his hand.

"Are you willing to talk to us today?" Kirk asks exasperatedly.

"As I have mentioned before, Captain, I am never too keen on sharing information with members of Starfleet."

"You're in luck. We brought a civilian to talk to you." Kirk gestures to John. "Recognize this man?"

"He certainly seems to know who you are," Spock says. John doesn't miss his tone, heavy with derision.

Khan's eyes dart towards John with an intensity that almost makes him step away from the glass. John feels the cuffs at his wrists, the wrinkles in his clothes, the stubble on his chin; his weakness must be all-too apparent.

"No," Khan says finally, regarding John with disdain. "Should I?"

John feels his heart drop- how can this familiar face not see his best friend staring back at him?

"You don't know who I am?" John's voice, small and broken, breaks the stunned silence.

Khan glares at him with a coldness that makes his blood turn to ice.

"No."

"But-"

"Captain, what kind of a game is this?" Khan asks.

"This is Doctor Watson. He was in London around the time that you and your crew were sealed in those pods."

John's hardly listening. He tries to catch Khan's gaze, determined to see Sherlock peering back.

Nothing.

Khan avoids his eyes, not out of fear- that would be ridiculous, the man clearly fears nothing- but complete disinterest. One look at John told him all he needed to know.

"I don't recall a 'Doctor Watson' being part of the research team that created me." Khan's eyebrows furrow. He spits out John's last name like a bitter pill.

"He wasn't. Doctor Watson-"

Feeling his desperation grow, John interrupts Spock, keeping his eyes on Khan. "I know someone who looks- who looked, I mean- exactly like you. A perfect copy. Well, almost."

"Hm. Intriguing." Khan is dismissive, but John won't give up so easily.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says, slowly and clearly. "Have you heard that name before?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Think very hard."

Khan's expression does change this time, though it's one of pity, as if John is a lame dog he'd rather put out of its misery. "No, Doctor Watson, I'm afraid not." Condescension. That, at least, is a familiar tone.

John suddenly becomes aware of how intently Kirk and Spock are watching him. Fantastic. They must think he's mad.

"Alright. Guess it must be a mistake. Sorry to bother," he says shortly. He makes to turn away, but Khan stops him.

"Who is he? Perhaps I know him by another name."

John tightens his jaw. He will not cry, not in front of all of these strangers. "Consulting detective. Extremely talented. He was rather well-known around London in the early twenty-first century for his ability to solve impossible cases."

Khan sneers. "Just a detective? And here I assumed he'd be someone important. People would actually pay someone else to think for them?" The irony that Khan seems to be insulting himself is not lost on John, but he can't help but grow defensive.

"He was very important! He saved lives. He stood for something!"

"What exactly did he stand for, Doctor?"

"The- the truth." John's stammer is back. "His goal was to- well, he wanted to- to show people- well, not show exactly, but-"

"He stood for the truth, did he? And yet you think I may be this detective in disguise? Fascinating." Khan crosses his arms, turning away with an air of finality. The conversation is over.

"Come on, Doc." Kirk nudges his elbow gently.

"You-!" John starts, but Kirk shakes his head, and he falls silent.

As Kirk and Spock lead him back to his cell, he finally realizes what's missing from Sherlock's body.

No soul, John thinks. He has no soul.

* * *

Kirk marches ahead, shoulders hunched and fists held tightly at his sides.

"Captain Kirk has difficulties when dealing with the prisoner Khan," Spock explains to John quietly. "The Captain's superior officer, Admiral Pike, was killed during Khan's attack on Starfleet."

"Quit apologizing for me, Spock," Kirk barks over his shoulder. "Khan is a menace to the entire galaxy, and it's not an overreaction to treat him like the asshole he is."

Spock's head bows, and they reach John's cell. Kirk, however, leans against the glass door instead of opening it. He folds his arms across his chest, sighing and frowning, lost in thought.

Confused, John opens his mouth and closes it a few times before speaking. "Um, Captain, are we- I mean, am I going back-?"

"No." Kirk makes up his mind. "We're going to transfer you to a real room, get you some clothes. You'll still have a guard on you at all times, but..." He shakes his head. "Spock, have Bones do a full medical check-up on him before letting him into the mess."

Spock looks shocked. "Captain, don't you feel this is hasty? He's only been exposed to Khan for a few minutes and we have yet to discover his means of warping aboard the ship-"

"He's fine, Spock."

John can cut the awkward tension with a knife. Spock, who has been almost completely devoid of emotion up to this point, looks positively hurt at Kirk's dismissal.

"...yes, Captain."

"I'll see you on the bridge." Kirk nods curtly and disappears around the corner.

"That was..." John begins, but Spock has regained his composure, and makes it clear that nothing is open for discussion.

"Follow me, Doctor Watson."

* * *

After an introduction to a newer and nicer room, a quick shower and giving up his wrinkled clothes for a blue Starfleet uniform, John finds himself sitting on an examination table in the office of one disgruntled Doctor McCoy- or Bones, as Kirk affectionately calls him.

"Any weird urination streams?" Bones asks gruffly as he peers into John's ears.

"No-"

"Earwax a funny color?"

"Not since I last-"

"Have you been vaccinated against Lexilitus 17?"

"What-"

Bones hypos him anyway.

John yelps, prodding at the new bruise blossoming on his neck. "Was that really necessary?"

"Who knows what you're bringing in. Goddamn time travellers," Bones huffs, as if they're an everyday occurrence.

"Well, if that's all, I-" John makes to slide off the table.

"Doctor Watson," Bones continues nonchalantly, pulling on rubber gloves with a snap, "when was the last time you had a prostate exam?" He reaches for John with a manic grin.

John immediately leaps off the table. "I'm fine, thank you very much!"

Laughing, and not too kindly, Bones peels off his gloves. "God, man. That last one was a joke. Wow, you are tense."

John winces as Bones digs his thumbs into his shoulders. "Do you have to patch people up often?" he ventures. He grips the edge of the table; Bones is kneading him so hard that he's starting to slide off.

"You won't believe the crap Jim gets himself into," Bones grunts as he starts on John's shoulder blades.

"Who?"

"Cocky blondie with an interspecies fetish. The captain."

"Ah-" John grimaces when Bones finds a particularly difficult knot.

"Do you grind your teeth?"

"No."

"This-" Bones jabs his palm into the point of tension- "-says otherwise."

"Fine, I used to," John replies indignantly. "It's been about a year now. Old habit."

"Relax," Bones says. "We've all got tics."

Bones is good at his job- if his job, that is, means causing John pain. He finds a ridge, a little raised sliver of a scar that John hasn't thought about since the last time he ground his teeth.

"Knife wound," John cries out, flinching away.

Immediately, Bones freezes. "Let me see," he says, tugging on the hem of John's Starfleet shirt.

Steeling himself, fingers twitching and eyes fluttering shut, John acquiesces.

For a moment, Bones is silent, and John begins to panic- is it horrid? Is he deformed, so disfigured that even a seasoned doctor like Bones is having trouble maintaining his bedside manner? Or, even worse, is the wound open once more? He's bleeding, isn't he? It's trickling down his back, along his spine, dripping off the edge of his bed and pooling beneath his shoes-

"Just a scratch," Bones says quietly, letting John's shirt fall.

John nods frantically. "Last time I looked- really was- was quite a long time ago, and- didn't seem-" He twists, right hand groping for a scar just out of sight. It's a familiar motion. Every morning, he'd drag himself to the bathroom and turn the same way in front of a mirror, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the pearly-white scar embedded parallel to his spine. It didn't matter if he'd had a nightmare of the moment he was stabbed during his first month in Afghanistan, because after a few weeks it became a habit bordering on obsession, one he couldn't shake. Until he met Sherlock, that is, and living with the consulting detective meant that every morning he was far too preoccupied with checking if the stove had been left on all night (testing London's electrical system, Sherlock said) or if one of Sherlock's Baker Street "Irregulars," who regularly borrowed their couch, had made off with Mrs. Hudson's china after all.

He has to find Sherlock. He has to get back to Khan. From the bottom of his heart he knows it's Sherlock, but why the man doesn't recognize him, and how he appeared in the world of the Enterprise in the first place-

"Can't- have to-" John is scrabbling for the scar. Suddenly, he jerks his hand away as if he found some wetness there, and in the haziness of his vision he imagines that his fingers are coated red-

"Woah. Steady there, Watson," Bones warns, as the machine displaying John's vitals goes haywire. "Steady-"

"Can't-"

"Watson!" Bones grips him by his shoulders tightly. John spasms, pulls his fist back and prepares to strike-

And with a shuddering exhale, relaxes.

Bones doesn't relinquish his hold right away. He peers at John carefully, and only when John slumps in embarrassment does he take a step back.

"...I don't know what came over me," John says, voice shaking.

"I do."

John stares at his hands, clenching feebly in his lap. "That was..." Clearing his throat, he straightens up, willing himself to feel more like the man who demanded his captors call him Doctor. "I apologize."

"Nothing to apologize for." Bones bustles about, washing his hands and shutting his instruments away in their drawers. He's a little more careful in his movements now, not as if he's afraid John will break, but as though he's realized he may have miscalculated him. John would have loathed him otherwise.

"You hungry?" Bones asks, clapping John on the back. "I can take you to the mess."

On cue, John's stomach rumbles. He hasn't thought about food for what seems like days- although technically, he hasn't eaten for centuries. He laughs a bit at that. It's a hysterical little sound, but Bones doesn't bat an eye.

"Depends. Is the hobgoblin going to be there?" John asks.

Bones laughs. "You mean Spock? Knowing our luck, yes. Come on, soldier. Let's get some grub in you."

* * *

John can feel eyes upon him the moment he follows Bones into the mess. There's a table in particular whose officers are doing a poor job of hiding their stares. Chekov is sitting among them, and upon spotting John, he beams. The officer beside him, an Asian man in gold, frowns.

"Sorry. Sulu's a bit tetchy," Bones says gruffly. "Ah. Here we are. What'll it be today?"

Bones has brought John to what roughly resembles a microwave embedded in the wall.

"Excuse me?" John asks blankly.

"Dammit. Sorry. I forgot you didn't have these back in your time. It's a replicator," Bones explains. "It can synthesize just about anything."

"Ask for cobbler!" Chekov pipes up, having practically skipped over despite Sulu's obvious disapproval, and bless him, the abuse John threw him yesterday. "It is wery good these days."

"Go on then, sunshine," Bones says. "Show him how it's done."

"I still don't under-" John begins.

"There you are!"

John watches a woman in red beside Sulu rise from her seat. Spock has entered the room, and she's bounding up to him with a smile. John finds the display of affection for the Vulcan off-putting, rather like a puppy trying to play with a stone wall.

"Lieutenant," Spock replies cordially. He's assumed his usual position, legs shoulder-width apart and his arms locked behind his back. With one glance he tells John that yes, he has taken note of him, and yes, he is watching.

"So?" The woman raises her eyebrows expectantly.

"So?" Spock repeats.

Her face falls. "You asked him, right? You didn't forget?"

"I know neither what nor whom you speak of."

"Spock," she asks exasperatedly, "are you trying to dodge the question?"

"Here we go again," Bones grumbles under his breath.

"You remember what today is, right?"

Spock hesitates for a moment. "To forget would be unseemly, given the nature of our relationship."

She crosses her arms, glaring back at the Vulcan with a fearlessness that John admires. "And?"

"And I decided it was best to keep this matter to ourselves."

"So you're still on shift tonight."

Spock looks away.

"Spock!" she exclaims. "You promised! Our one-year anniversary. You promised you'd take the night off!"

"I did no such thing. I said I would consider it."

"Who does that? Who actually ignores their anniversary?"

"I did not ignore it, I simply decided that my work takes precedence."

"You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."

"I assure you I am not."

"One night! I just wanted one night. Not a day, or a week. A night where your prime objective isn't to babysit Kirk!"

"I do not babysit him. We simply discuss tactics and the next day's agenda."

"In his private quarters."

"Well, yes-"

"Bet that's not all you do," she snaps.

"Lieutenant-"

"Uhura. My name is Nyota Uhura. Do you even care for me at all?"

"Lieutenant Uhura, you are behaving irrationally-"

"Go to hell, Spock." She storms away.

Spock sinks slowly into her vacated seat, ears tinged green. The rest of the officers in the mess, smatterings of blue, red, and gold, know better than to stare, and the buzz of their chatter rises again.

"Here you are, sir," Chekov says, drawing John's attention back to the replicator and handing him a steaming plate of cobbler and potatoes.

John follows Bones and Chekov to their table warily, sliding as far from Spock as possible. Spock is silent, fists clenched, eyes trained fixedly on a spare fork. Sulu has wisely edged away.

Bones, however, can't help but rub salt in the wound. "Quite a woman you've got there."

Spock turns his glare towards the CMO, eyes like darts.

Bones takes it all in stride and helps himself to a piece of John's cobbler. "You gonna go after her?"

"I am considering it," Spock replies, voice stiff and controlled. "...you are both lucky that you do not have to deal with the complications of a romantic entanglement."

"Real lucky," Bones mumbles as Spock leaves.

"I was under the impression that the Captain knew that today was their anniwersary. Considering that he made such a big deal when they reached six months," Chekov says, absentmindedly licking the cobbler's glaze off his spoon.

"Hush," Sulu chides.

"Where's your manners? You gonna introduce yourself, Hikaru?" Bones says.

"Hikaru Sulu. Helmsman," Sulu replies shortly.

John shovels potatoes into his mouth, averting Sulu's barely concealed animosity. It's quite good, whatever this stuff is made of. If you put two plates of real and synthetic food in front of him in the dark, he probably wouldn't be able to tell which was which.

"Bet that's not at all you do!" Scotty mimics in a high, feminine voice as he plops down beside Chekov. "Hey, stowaway," he says, nodding at John and still chortling. He's holding a glass of something amber and bubbly, straight from the replicator, and one sip makes him grimace. "Ugh. Ever so slightly toffee. Want some?"

John shakes his head.

"Anyway," Scotty continues, "that skirmish was excellent. 9.5 out of 10. Almost as good as the time she showed up in his room in a nightie and he told her it was inappropriate to be out of uniform."

Sulu fights a smile.

"I don't see what you find laughable about them." Chekov frowns.

"You daft little schmetterling." Scotty ruffles his hair fondly and takes another hearty sip. "The Captain and Spock are-"

"-are what, Scotty?" Kirk cuts in with a broad smile.

"The best damn officers to ever fly this vessel, sir," Scotty replies quickly.

"How are we doing today?" Kirk asks, tall and proud in his Command Gold. "Doctor Watson?"

"Fine, but-" John begins.

"Lieutenant Uhura and Spock had an argument, Keptin," Chekov says.

"No need to report the ordinary."

"It was... bad."

Kirk's expression clouds for a moment. "Ah."

"Jim," Bones says, clearing his throat. "Are we gonna drink tonight or what? We still haven't celebrated that time I cured Andorian antennal pox."

"His paper was published in the New England Journal of Medicine!" Chekov whispers to John. "He has become quite a celebrity in the medical field."

"Damn straight I have," Bones says. "So? Tonight? You, me, and Jack?"

"Jack Marshall? From engineering?" Chekov asks.

"Finish your pie." Scotty admonishes.

"I actually..." Kirk fidgets and glances towards the exit. "I've got some stuff to take care of. Next time, okay?"

"That's what you said last time," Bones grumbles, but the door is already swinging shut behind him.

"'Stuff to take care of'?" Scotty smirks. "The kind of stuff involving green blood, pointy ears, and thumping headboards?"

"I'm done with you brats," Bones exclaims suddenly, grabbing his and John's now empty plates. "Come on, Watson. Time for old men to drink. And none of that synthesized cow juice."

"I'm older than you, you ass!" Scotty calls after them.

"You sit down," Sulu orders, yanking Chekov back, who had attempted to trail after them like a puppy.

* * *

Two security guards in red follow John and Bones through the corridors.

John resists the urge to look over his shoulder, but the pitter-pattering is always there, just a few paces behind them. They first appeared a second after Spock dropped him in Bones' office and have been tailing him ever since; in the liveliness of the mess, John had forgotten that Spock still has him pegged for conspiring with a terrorist.

"Beat it," Bones says grumpily.

The guards glance at each other uncertainly.

"We'll just be in my room. You can come collect him when we're through."

They nod and briskly post themselves at separate ends of the hallway.

"Welcome to my humble abode." Bones gestures vaguely at the lone swivel chair in the room that serves as an extra pedestal for the clutter spilling over from his crowded desk. He shuffles through his closet, his back to John, and John's eyes dart towards the door, to near-empty hallways that will take him to Khan-

"Here we go." Triumphantly, Bones pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses.

The sturdy black label with its unmistakable white script is an unexpected comfort for John. Synthesizers, space ships, aliens and teleportation- at least something hasn't changed in the last two centuries.

"Whiskey enthusiast?" John asks, because Bones is beaming from ear to ear.

"God, man, are you some kind of maharajah? This is the real deal!" The CMO settles on his plain bed, the sheets a standard-issue gray, and pours them both generous helpings.

John shrugs and downs his glass- far more than a shot, did Bones really expect him to sit and sip it?- with a grimace.

"Quite common where I'm from. You can buy a whole crate for a few quid. Relatively."

"Of course, of course," Bones replies. "But this isn't Earth. This is Starfleet. They let us make whatever we like in the synthesizer and most people are happy because they can't tell the difference. But I can. Scotty too." He savors his glass like it's ambrosia. "Had to smuggle this on. This and a few more. I'm planning on stocking up again before we leave on our five-year mission."

John accepts a refill without hesitation and suppresses a smile at Bones' obvious approval.

"Are you really from the past?" Bones asks.

"I think so," John replies. "I'm not sure how, but... I'm certainly a long way from home."

"Where and when is home?" Bones props his feet up on his desk, heels lodged snugly between dog-eared volumes of The Physics of Gamma Sei'tn and Reich's Treatise on Formic Morphology.

"London. 2012."

Pensively, Bones swirls the amber liquid in his glass. "That's a long, long way."

"You don't believe me?"

Bones chuckles, looking John up and down. "I suppose I do. It's happened before."

"That's what Chekov said."

"Silly little lamb. I think he likes you."

"Can't imagine why." John braves his glass. He's never been much of a drinker, and it runs down his throat hot and heavy.

"What did you do in London? After being an army doctor, I mean."

"How'd you...?"

"Never relax, do you?" Bones motions towards John's rigid posture. "Military man through and through."

"I suppose it comes out during stress." John shifts uncomfortably, hyper-aware of the way his spine won't allow itself to conform to the gentle sloping of the mesh chair, and his feet, planted an exact shoulders'-width apart. "But I... I was the partner to a consulting detective."

"Never heard of that. Then again, I was never a history buff."

"It's not..." And John has to laugh, because he supposes it is quite ridiculous. "My partner made up the job himself. Whenever the police failed, which was often... we'd step in."

"Vigilante justice? CIA?"

"Better."

Bones takes his word for it.

"What was it like back then?"

"Are you asking if we drove horses and buggies?" John scoffs. "If we dumped our shit in the street?"

"I'm a doctor, not a historian."

"We had cars." John eases into the chair, forcing his back to rest against it. "Cars and mobile phones and television. It was comfortable enough."

"Comfortable and boring. You haven't gone to Saturn yet, have you?"

"Nothing but the moon."

"I can't imagine that." Bones frowns. "I can't imagine living on a planet and not being able to just... leave."

"When you grow up in a world where space travel is basically an impossibility, I suppose you don't think much of it." John's starting to feel a bit heady now, his limbs gaining the tell-tale pliance as the alcohol takes its effect. To his relief, Bones mercifully retrieves a bottle of soda from under his bed. It's dark like cola, but with a strong air of licorice, a drink sweet enough to make him overlook just how much whiskey Bones tips in afterwards.

They clink glasses and Bones finishes his with an ease that John struggles to match.

"Tell me more about that partner of yours," Bones says.

"He-" John stares into his glass, at the fizz loosening from the sides and dissipating at the drink's surface. Is Bones drunk yet? Or at least incapacitated enough that John can slip out the door, find Khan's cell, and-

What?

Let him out?

Then where would they go?

"Watson?"

John blinks. "Sorry. I was just..."

Bones has that look on his face again, the same one from when he saw John's scar. Not fear, not pity, only...

Understanding?

"Sherlock. His name was Sherlock." John inhales sharply. He will not cry, not now. He shouldn't have drank. The whiskey's getting to him already, tapping into that vulnerable little place that's finally starting to process that he saw his best friend commit suicide, that's starting to panic because he's been dropped into another universe and he has no clue how to get back. "Bones- Khan, he-"

"Watson-" Bones takes his glass and sets it firmly on the table. "What's wrong? Did you just say... Khan?"

"I know him." The words tumble from John's mouth before he can stop himself. "I know him, and that's not him. He's Sherlock. My partner. From London, from 2012, and for some reason I'm here, and he's here, and he doesn't know who I am, and-"

A knock at the door abruptly ends the conversation.

"Come in," Bones calls, and John struggles to compose himself. "Yeoman Brook," greets Bones, sending John's stomach churning.

Blood boiling, his hand twitches for his glass, fighting every urge not to smash it over the man's head-

"Sorry, Doctor McCoy," Moriarty says flatly, "but I've got orders to bring the prisoner back to his cell. Past his curfew, you see."

The madman's demeanor has transformed completely in the presence of a Starfleet crew member- his stands firmly, rather than shifting and slouching; his lips relax, rather than curling into a sneer; his fingers clasp one another behind his back, rather than fiddling with his clothes or drumming with calculation. But John recognizes the insolent look in his eyes, the gaze of superiority Moriarty wears when he feels he must communicate with anyone beneath him...

"Look, things were just getting started-"

"It's a direct order from Captain Kirk, Doctor McCoy."

Bones sighs. "Well, I guess it's getting late. Thanks for the company, Watson." He smiles gratefully.

"Of course, Bones. Anytime." John endures the dizzying transition of one, not entirely sober, who must learn to stand on his own feet again, and regretfully follows Moriarty out of the room.

Once in the corridor, he begins whispering angrily.

"What the hell have you done to Sherlock? He was a completely different person this morning and I swear to God if you're any part of this-"

"Oh, John." The drawl has returned, and the psychopath leans lazily against the white, sloped walls. "You really need to have things explained to you, don't you? Can't figure anything out on your own. It's a wonder Holmes put up with your stupidity for so long-"

"Alright, fine, your intellect astounds me!" Sarcasm drips from John's voice. "Feeling sufficiently flattered? Your ego's been stroked enough, you mad, narcissistic-"

"Sherlock is dead."

John's heart skips a beat, and he feels his hands go numb. "What?"

"Well, for all intents and purposes he is, anyway."

The next sound John hears is a loud thud against the wall of the corridor, and he realizes he's holding up Moriarty by his neck against the white paneling. So much for numbness; through his veins runs pure hatred and liquid courage.

"Tell me what you've done. Now."

Moriarty's tinkling laugh fills the hallway. John's guards are nowhere to be found. John tightens his grip around Moriarty's throat, but the madman only responds with a Cheshire Cat grin.

"But then the game would be over, John," he whines. "Can't you just accept the fact that your boyfriend is gone? It would make things so much easier on you-"

"Sherlock isn't gone! He's still there, I just know it." A second thud echoes through the corridor as Moriarty's body drops to the ground. Massaging his neck, he looks up at John with a peculiar expression. For all of John's bravado, Moriarty is completely unperturbed.

"Fine. Let's go see that precious detective of yours. But I tell you..." Moriarty's practically singing with glee. "That pretty shell doesn't hold such a pretty mind anymore."

In silence, the two men walk to Khan's cell. A large panel has sprung up over the glass wall.

"Had to cover him up," Moriarty sighs wistfully. "He was too much of a distraction. Messing with the rookies, ruining Captain Kirk's blood pressure..."

Moriarty yanks John to a side entrance.

"Be good, Johnny boy." The criminal pats his head lightly. "Don't get too discouraged." He pushes John into the cell and locks it behind him.

Eyes adjusting to the brightness of the room, John looks wildly for Khan. A toilet, table, two chairs and a flimsy cot - from which a slender figure is rising.

"Doctor... Watson, was it? What is it now?" Khan flops into a chair, drumming his fingers on the table in annoyance.

John opens his mouth to speak, but his response leaves his mind in a flash. Those eyes, stabbing and seeking and calculating his every flaw, not so different from the way Sherlock would always-

He needs to get a grip.

"Have you come to interrogate me again?" Khan continues. "There's nothing I can tell you. Told that to your captain this afternoon when he came in yelling. Comes in every other day, just like clockwork." Khan examines his long nails. "But he was preoccupied with God knows what, and left quickly, thank goodness."

"He's not my captain." Sherlock would constantly fiddle with his nails too, picking out rosin and London grime.

Khan's eyebrows raise slightly. "Oh yes, I forgot, you're not Starfleet."

John's had enough. "Look, I know you. I'm sure of it. And this," he gestures to the cell around him, "this isn't you! You're the greatest consulting detective London's ever seen, the greatest-" His voice catches in his throat. London. "You can't have done it. You can't have killed all those people."

Khan looks him dead in the eyes. "I did."

Tears spring to John's eyes. "Why? Sherlock, you'd never-"

"Quit calling me that, will you?" Khan rises from his seat in anger. "I'm not this 'Sherlock' you keep referring to. I know who I am and what I've done. You won't trap me with your sorry excuse of an interrogation."

John doesn't understand. How is this possible? This man in front of him was his whole life, once. Does it count for nothing?

"Are you crying?" A burst of dark laughter reverberates in the cell. "Who on earth was this detective? To be so damn important to you... one might think-"

"You're my best friend!" John yells. "And I thought you were dead! I saw you fall!"

There is a long silence. John takes a breath, then sits in the folding chair across the table from Khan. "We lived together for over a year. Flatmates, professional partners and friends. We worked cases that the police couldn't solve. Don't you remember? How begrudging Lestrade was towards you?"

Khan lowers himself into his chair with a sardonic smile. "Was he really?" he mocks.

"Moriarty!" John shouts. "You must-" He stops. Moriarty's just behind that door, and mentioning his name could compromise them both. The threat could be a bluff, but he's not ready to take that chance.

He switches tactics.

"Mycroft, your brother. You hated him. Every one of your actions was designed to piss him off, to stick it to his sensibilities. You spent thirty years of your life with Mycroft a stone's throw away-" An eye roll makes him stutter, and he changes the subject again.

"Mrs. Hudson. Our landlady. She took care of you like you were her own, even though it wasn't part of her job-"

Another shake of the head.

"Molly. The lab tech. Had such a crush on you, fought every hour to get you to notice her, my God, she was obsessed-"

"Like someone else I know."

Cheeks flaring, John reaches for the one person he never wanted to mention. "Irene Adler. 'The Woman.' She was just as brilliant as you, and the only person to ever defeat you. And somehow, also the only person to ever turn you on. You kept her cell phone for ages, and you're not the sentimental type-"

"I'm sensing a bit of envy." Khan speaks carefully, turning every word over in his mouth before spitting it out. "Were you two romantically involved? It would explain a lot-"

"No! No, of course not."

"Mmhmm." Khan reaches across the table to lightly caress John's hand. Warnings flash in John's mind, but he finds himself unable to move. "I bet you were. I understand that sort of thing, you know. How close you can get to those living with you, the familiarity of family without all of the ugly history. I'd do anything for my friends... kill, even. How far would you go, Doctor?"

John gulps and tries to respond, but no sound can escape him. Khan's face moves closer and closer to his own, until they're nearly touching-

In one swift motion, Khan leaps across the table and knocks John off his chair and onto the ground. One hand around John's neck, Khan twists John's right wrist, nearly breaking it as he maneuvers himself over John's torso, pinning his arms with his knees. A light kick to John's groin renders his legs weak, and Khan's grip around his neck tightens.

With his arms immobilized, John scrabbles uselessly at the floor. A low voice hisses in his ear, "This was almost too easy, Doctor Watson..."

This can't be it. To to be strangled to death on a starship, years and years away from home. Sherlock would never hurt him. Sherlock wouldn't-

"This will be a nice warning to the rest of your Starfleet-"

A door bangs open, and suddenly Khan is gone. Gasping for air, John hears maniacal laughter ringing through the cell, and feels himself being dragged to his feet. Another door slams behind him, and the corridor comes into focus. A crazed, ecstatic face looms over him, blocking the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead.

"Convinced yet, Johnny?"


	3. Chapter 3

"_-and I told him it made absolutely no sense to arrest the grocer. Poor fool was color blind, it would be near-impossible for him to drive straight to Kensington with three dogs in his trunk. One of them was a bloodhound who had just given birth, so naturally, you see my point. But of course Lestrade had to- John, are you listening?"_

_John upsets his teacup and saucer, and watches fresh stains bloom across Mrs. Hudson's lace doilies. "Sorry." _

"_She'll be cross. We'll have to buy her those lambskin gloves after all." Sherlock sighs and steeples his fingers. "A curious business. Almost as curious as the case with the seven feather dusters. Do you remember that one?"_

"_Blog them all, don't I?" John replies. _

"_Yes. Yes, you do."_

_And Sherlock gives him one of his rare smiles, a begrudging little quirk of his lips that John will never admit fills him with a sense of satisfaction._

"_Do me a favor, will you, John? Ring up Mycroft. Anthea will pick up, of course, and try to mislead you by claiming her fat gaffer's ill. If you threaten her life, the Thames will rise- she's got connections of her own, that bloody hellcat- and the Serbian orphans under the pier will drown. Yes, yes, the only way to do it is to tell her a joke. A good one, not the nonsense you find under lids of pop. It'll have to be something about Mycroft so she gets the picture. Tell her you've found that goose that lays golden eggs, the one that lives in Box Five at the Orpheum. Mycroft was always fond of that st-"_

"_Sherlock?"_

"_Yes, John?"_

"_This isn't real, is it? You're not really here." _

_Sadly, sorrowfully, Sherlock reaches for John's hand. It's cold as ice. "Oh, John-"_

"Doctor Watson?"

John jolts up in bed.

Chekov pokes his head into the room and waves. "Good morning!" he sings cheerfully.

"What time is it?" John rubs his eyes blearily.

Sherlock. He had been dreaming of Sherlock. It had made sense in the moment, for some reason. The Thames and the feather dusters and Sherlock sitting across from him as they used to. But he should have realized- they had ruined Mrs. Hudson's doilies long ago, and she had staunchly given up crocheting altogether. As for the case with the feather dusters, it had never happened, but once they found the carcasses of seven pigeons arranged in a circle in the park.

From the beginning, John knew it was a dream. Sherlock's hair was different, for one thing. Straight and immaculate like Khan's, a jarring sight when paired with his frayed bathrobe and its folds askew over the arms of his chair.

John never wanted the dream to end, and maybe his desperation was ultimately his undoing.

He tries not to be mad at Chekov as he drags himself to the sink and douses himself with frigid water. He tries not to be upset when the navigator chatters far too loudly for the early hour. And most of all, he tries not to remember the way Sherlock reached for him in his dream, and how for a moment the pressure was enough for him to believe none of this had ever happened.

"I'm in charge of supervising you today!" Chekov chirps.

"No guards hounding my every move?"

"Just me."

He supposes that's a blessing.

He can't be angry, not when Chekov looks like Christmas came early, and the feeling of Sherlock's hand on his own is starting to fade.

"Scotty and I have been arguing," Chekov says as he leads John through the winding halls to the mess. "He thinks zat when faced with a Quadro-Nine Nexuzeine star, zhe Enterprise would simply erupt into flames and disintegrate in under a minute. His calculations are incorrect. He has an unfortunate habit of misplacing his decimals, and zhe Enterprise would, in fact, be pulled into zhe star's orbit and _zhen _catch fire, and fall towards it like a meteor."

"Any chance of that actually happening?"

"Once again, zis is where Scotty and I disagree. Quadro-Nine stars are difficult to locate on radar, and by zhe time you notice one, it would be too late. But zhe odds of us actually encountering one are 10.73%, according to Scotty. It is actually 9.86%, but he was getting belligerent, so-" Chekov stops. "Is zat Doctor McCoy?"

Bones, who had just soundlessly slipped out of a room and was attempting to furtively creep down the hallway, freezes. His head snaps towards Chekov's voice, and he immediately pales. "Shit."

"That's strange. Isn't zat zhe Captain's quarters?"

John raises an eyebrow at Bones' unkempt hair and a tell-tale bruise peeking out from beneath his Starfleet collar.

"Chekov!" Bones hisses. He glances up and down the corridor, which is thankfully empty, before advancing on the young officer. "Chekov, I swear to _God _if you tell anyone what you just saw, I will-" He sighs and massages his temples. "Just- just keep it to yourself, alright? Be discreet."

"Keep what to myself?"

"You're kidding."

Chekov looks between Bones' unnaturally unkempt state and Kirk's room, eyes widening as he finally understands what's being insinuated.

John silently notes that it would have probably been wiser if Bones had simply walked away.

"Tell no one!" Bones growls, threats left to the imagination. "John, watch him." A pair of officers in blue are headed their way, and Bones, tugging his shirt back into place, darts off.

"Did you know about zhis?" Chekov rounds up on John, mouth still agape with shock.

"Since Day One," John replies, not as surprised as Chekov seems to expect. "Come on. Show me if that replicator can make ham and eggs."

* * *

"You're hiding something," Scotty says, eyes narrowing at Chekov over his porridge.

"I do not know what you are talking about," Chekov replies, eyes fixated on the Starfleet insignia emblazoned on the engineer's chest.

"No, you definitely have something to say. What is it? Are my assistants fondling in the closet behind the radiator? Did Jim decide to fire me? Or did you walk in on Spock and Uhura again?"

Chekov crosses his arms.

"Are you not telling me because you're still mad about that Quadro-Nine star? I showed you my calculations. You're not the only genius around here."

"Zhis has nothing to do with our disagreement."

"Chekov," Scotty begins testily, "aren't we friends? Good friends?"

"Leave him alone." Sulu sets his food down beside Chekov's, shooing the navigator aside to make room on the bench. John doesn't bother greeting him.

Scotty jabs his spoon at Chekov. "But he knows something we don't!" he exclaims. "Something good, or he would have cracked already. What is it, Pavel? Is it Kirk? Did you see Kirk and Spock... _you know_."

"What?" Chekov, genuinely confused, looks to John. "But that wouldn't make any sense, because this morning we saw-"

"This is great," John declares loudly, spearing a slice of ham on his fork. "Whatever this is made of. So great. Can't tell the difference."

"_I _can." Scotty frowns. "That's why I go for the tasteless stuff. The way they try and mimic salt is horrendous." He grins suddenly. "So. Watson's in on it too!"

"I am not." John stabs his egg.

"Liar," Sulu says, his unconcealed animosity making John's cheeks burn.

"Go on, then," Scotty urges. "What's Chekov hiding?"

But Chekov's attention is elsewhere. He's glancing at a girl across the room - a brunette, tall and lithe - and the sight of her makes him blush.

"You dog," Scotty pounces. "You're fooling around with her! When were you going to tell me?"

"I'm not!" Chekov replies indignantly.

"Red shirt- what is she, a yeoman?" Sulu asks, interest conspicuously piqued, hackles raised like a suspicious older brother.

"None of your business."

"What's her name?" Sulu prompts.

"Christine Wieniawska." Chekov stares into the depths of his pudding as Scotty cackles with glee.

"Burke's assistant, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"Nearly a decade older than you too."

"She is six years older."

"Sulu likes rounding up," Scotty says.

"I do not see why her age is of any concern to you." Chekov swirls his pudding with as much aggressiveness as he can muster.

"Oh, _ceci_." Scotty throws an arm around the navigator and draws him close. "We're just looking out for you."

Chekov pouts. "It does not feel zat way."

"I don't like this," Sulu says sternly. "How long has this been going on?"

"Nozhing is going on!" Chekov exclaims.

"Then what were you getting all flustered for?" Scotty demands. "How far have you gone? Has she taken off her top?"

"You can't trust these Starfleet girls," Sulu adds. "Most of them will let you take them to bed and leave before the night is out. You don't want that."

"You don't know that, Hikaru." Scotty grins conspiratorially at Chekov, who manages to extricate himself from his grasp, only to have his cheeks pinched with a smothering affection. "That could be _exactly _what he's after."

Sulu wrinkles his nose. "Don't be so crass."

"He's a man! And a Starfleet one at that. You really expect him to saddle up with the first doll he sets his eyes on?"

"First. That's my point, Scotty. _First_."

"Sentimental," Scotty scoffs. "That's what you are. And there's no point. If Pavel wants to lose it to this Wieniawska then you've got no right to try and hinder him."

"Your first time is one of the most important moments in your life!" Sulu exclaims. "I'm not going to let him throw it away on a Yeoman who's transferring to a new ship the second we finish this business with Khan! Just because you had your first time in a broomshed at Aberdeen-"

"It was a proper dormitory, you ass," Scotty declares loudly, "and I was sixteen and it was glorious. I say he ought to go on and court her. It's the cream of the crop here on the Enterprise. It would be hard to go wrong."

"Don't go near her, Pavel. Am I clear?" Sulu orders.

"You're not his father and he's not a maid," Scotty counters. "Pavel, do as you like."

"Why didn't you tell me when this started? You haven't... fallen for her, have you?"

"You are both seeing zhings zat are not there!" Chekov groans. "I like her. Zat is all!"

John clears his throat, and the three officers jump, having forgotten in the heat of the moment that he's been having breakfast too. "So, uh, are shipboard romances common? You're all so isolated, and I imagine that it can get... awkward."

"It's only awkward if you make it awkward," Scotty replies easily. "Not to brag or anything, but I've made my rounds on the lower-east deck."

Sulu snorts. "Which is the exact opposite end of the ship from the engineering room."

"Play, but play it safe, lads."

"Spock and Lieutenant Uhura are the longest relationship aboard zhis ship zat I know of," Chekov supplies, grateful for the change in subject, as minor as it may be. "Zhey behave professionally, so I do not believe zhere have been any problems."

"Because lowering the crew's morale by fighting in the mess _isn't _a problem." Bones slams his tray onto the table. He clambers into the bench across from John and Chekov, searching for any sign that the rest of the table know where he had been last night.

"Morning," John says, although space travel is still disorienting and it's always impossible to tell what time it is. There's a pale smudge on the black collar beneath Bones' blue uniform, and if John hadn't happened upon him this morning, he wouldn't have noticed it's a stain from the concealer over his bruises. It's a perfect match to his skin, too perfect to have been a one-off favor from a female officer. Bones must have his own makeup, then, which means he's done this with Kirk before.

Divulging secrets with a glance for the mere sport of it is something Sherlock would do, and it makes John queasy. He pushes his plate away, suddenly sickened by the clotting puddles of yolk.

"So? What are we tormenting Chekov about today?" Bones asks, still glancing between the crewmembers with suspicion.

"He was acting shifty this morning," Scotty replies triumphantly, "but we badgered it out of him."

"Oh?"

John is the only one who seems to notice that Bones is holding his breath.

"He's got a friend. A _special _friend, if you get my drift."

"No, he doesn't," Sulu says crossly.

"Exactly. I do not!" Exasperatedly, Chekov finishes his pudding and snatches up his dishes. "Scotty, when you decide to act your age, I will be on zhe G Deck. I have finished zhe new analysis on nucleosynthesis zat you requested." He marches off to bus them, and his genuine indignation would have been enough to make Scotty guilty if he had remembered to wipe the chocolate off his chin.

"Look, there's Uhura." Scotty nods towards the woman in red who had argued with Spock the day before.

"Another target? So soon?" Bones comments drily.

"Why isn't she sitting with us? She's not... _miffed_, is she? Whatever for?"

"Take a wild guess."

Scotty gasps theatrically. "No! About- you know-?" He waggles his fingers, mimicking Spock's pointed ears. "It's all a bit of fun! We don't mean anything by it. Not _really_." When Bones scowls and Sulu simply looks unimpressed, he sputters, "well, she brought it upon herself! I can't be the only one here morbidly fascinated with her affections for that green-blooded-"

"Doctor Watson!"

A sudden shout makes John jump. The mess hall quiets, several heads turning to stare at their captain in the doorway, his first officer lingering behind him.

Kirk reddens a bit but marches purposefully to John's table. Slowly, the mess resumes its buzzing - an outburst from their captain is a far more serious matter than a lovers' quarrel, but this only seems to involve the addressee.

"Khan is asking for you. Something about a London connection?"

"Captain, I swear, I had nothing to do with those attacks-"

"Not _present-day_ London," Spock clarifies. "The London of _your _era."

Spock says "_your_ era" as if John came from a barbaric sort of place, with witch-burnings and leeches and rampant disease. He'd give anything to smack that expression off Spock's face, but now isn't the time.

"Of which I'm sure you're an expert," John says coldly. He turns pointedly to Kirk. "What about London?"

"Apparently, the two of you might have a mutual acquaintance. Bastard wouldn't tell me the name. Would you come with us, please?"

"Sure." Not that he has much of a choice.

Bones is resolutely staring at a salt shaker to avoid making eye contact with the captain. Scotty looks positively flabbergasted; he must have thought John really _was _a bumbling stowaway. Sulu, on the other hand, wears an expression of vindication. He had never really trusted John, and now he has evidence that the doctor could be a terrorist after all.

Rolling his eyes at the lack of support his newfound companions offer him, he mumbles a quick goodbye and follows Kirk and Spock out of the hall.

The panel over Khan's cell is gone today, and the man in question is occupying the same chair from the night before, when John was nearly strangled. John wills himself to be brave, wills himself to face this monster in the guise of his best friend, though he can feel the shell around his own heart beginning to crack.

"Why the restraints?" he asks Kirk, gesturing to Khan's hand- and ankle-cuffs.

"Apparently he tried to assault one of the guards last night. Videotape cut out, but maybe he was messing with the camera too."

Moriarty's doing, no doubt.

"Doctor Watson." Khan greets him with a slow nod. "Won't you come in?"

"I think we'll stay out here, Khan." Kirk answers for John.

"Captain, I believe I called this meeting to speak with Doctor Watson, and Doctor Watson alone," Khan replies icily.

"Look, Khan-" Kirk starts angrily.

"Captain, it's alright," John interrupts. Eyeing the restraints, he continues, "I'll go in and talk to him. Maybe something of use will come of it."

"Close physical proximity may be a more useful condition for interrogation, Captain," Spock interjects. "An increase in psychological equal-footing, if you will."

"Fine," Kirk sighs. "Guard, please."

A guard posted at the end of the corridor lets John in. John is wary this time, searching for any sign that Khan could attack again.

"What's this about London, Khan?"

Khan stretches, systematically cracking his neck, then his knuckles, then his wrists, never taking his eyes off John. He's being sized up again, although he can't imagine what's left to deduce, unless Khan is simply cataloging every way he can possibly kill him.

"Won't you sit down?" Khan gestures towards the seat opposite from him with an eerie graciousness that makes John hesitate.

"Do what you like, Doc, but I'd stay as far from the guy as possible." Kirk, scowling from outside the glass, folds his arms in defiance. Spock does the same, and although John is sure the action is purely subconscious, Khan makes a note of it.

"How _cute_," he coos. "Tell me, Captain, when you return to Earth do you have to keep him on a leash or do the Terrans simply trust that you have him trained?"

Immediately, Spock drops his arms to his sides. His face takes on a greenish tinge- a Vulcan blush. The muscles in Kirk's jaw tighten.

"London," John says firmly, unwilling to lose the argument to a pissing contest. "You wanted to talk about London."

"Yes. I do." He regards John contemplatively for a moment, then sharply turns his gaze to Kirk and Spock, as lethal and unforgiving as a cobra. "Rather curious marks on your neck, Captain. Did your Vulcan put them there? Can't imagine how he fit that into his schedule, since he spent most of yesterday chasing his Lieutenant."

"Captain-" Spock begins.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kirk growls, but John, for all his inside knowledge, isn't the only one who can see the sloppy patches of concealer coating his neck.

"They passed my cell yesterday. I must admit I find it oddly satisfying to hear a Vulcan apologize."

"Captain," Spock says through gritted teeth, "it is obvious we are not wanted. Khan will not speak if we are present."

"If you try and-" Kirk raises a threatening finger. "Don't you dare hurt him," he snaps. "Whatever you're planning, don't. We'll be right around the corner and if we hear so much as a-"

"Peace, Captain." Khan smiles, and the sight makes John's skin crawl. "No harm will come to him today." He gestures at his cuffed limbs with a shrug.

Begrudgingly, Kirk and Spock leave, and then John is alone with Khan, fighting the urge to bolt from a cuffed man. As ridiculous as his fear may be, John's neck is still sore from the day before, and he has a creeping suspicion that Khan can break out of his restraints if he simply desired to.

"Alone at last, Doctor Watson."

"What do you have to tell me that's so important that you don't want Kirk and Spock here? You know they've got cameras recording everything we say, right?"

"Of course, of course," Khan replies impatiently. "I don't have anything classified to share with you. I've just grown bored of them."

"Bored," John repeats, voice cracking.

"They're so predictable now," Khan sighs, unable to understand why a single word has John at his limits. "Even baiting them doesn't hold the same charm."

"So now you're going to fool around with me."

"That's the idea."

"I don't understand. You tried to kill me yesterday and now you've basically invited me to tea?"

"A man can have a change of heart."

"You don't seem the type to do so."

"We've only just met. There is much you don't know about me."

For once, John says nothing.

"I thought it might interest you to hear," Khan continues, "that I knew a doctor from your time. He worked at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London."

"St. Bart's," John says. "You're joking. St. Bart's?"

Khan raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

It can't just be a coincidence.

"Do you- do you remember St. Bart's? You were there, last I saw you. It was where we met. And you were there, on the roof-"

"Oh God. Not this tedious _Sherlock_ business again." Khan rolls his eyes. "Do you think of nothing else?"

"Think about it! What are the odds? There has to be some kind of significance to this. You're remembering-"

"Once again, I don't _know_ you!" Khan interrupts. "I'm talking about Michael Stamford. A genetics specialist."

John blinks. "What?"

"Doctor Watson, have you heard of the Augments?"

"No, but- what was that about Mike?"

Khan frowns. "You knew him."

"Yes, I- we went to medical school together! He introduced us! He's the reason we were living together."

"Old chum of yours, was he?"

"I don't understand what Mike has to do with any of this."

"Doctor Watson, he created me."

Incredulously, John opens his mouth, then shuts it again with incomprehension. "What?"

"He engineered us."

"Engineered what, exactly?"

"A new race of superhumans. Augments, as we're called. Superior in every way."

"And you think you're one of them." And John wants to laugh because that is _completely _something Sherlock would say.

"I _am _one of them." Khan lets out an exaggerated sigh. "I suppose a history lesson is in order. In the early 2000's, a group of scientists got together. They were sick of the violence and destruction humans had created in the world, and they decided together than a new race of humans might not be entirely out of order. Of course, parallels to Nazism made it so they couldn't perform any experiments publicly. With a group of private investors, they set out to make these super-men and -women underground while maintaining respectable public reputations. Your Mike Stamford, as I recall, led a double life as a professor at St. Bart's."

"He _was_," is all that John can say.

"Traveling all over the world," Khan goes on, "these scientists found the best of the best. The strongest, the smartest, the fastest, anyone genetically mutated just enough to be considered above-average, able to withstand their experiments and worthy of transforming into such a superior being. I'm one of the earliest that were created. A prototype the rest were based on. I may not be as strong as the others, but..." He pauses, scanning the purple bruises on John's neck. "I get by. Even a Vulcan in his prime is no match for me."

"This doesn't make any sense," John says. "I _knew _Mike Stamford." Good-natured, perpetually content, predictable Stamford, who put mustard on everything, ordered the same Kronenbourg every time they met at the pubs, and was regularly in bed by 11:00.

"Clearly, you didn't. This project- _I _was his life."

"Surely, if you remember Mike- you must remember who you were!"

"I do," Khan replies simply. "John Harrison. Barrister, married with two children in Richmond. Not sure what happened to the wife and kids after I left, but her father was rich so I expect she got along well enough."

"Are you absolutely sure? You could have been-"

"Will you give up with this Sherlock nonsense already? I have memories of my entire life, and I promise you that you were no part of it."

"I don't believe that!" John exclaims, though Khan's words have cut him deep. "There has to be something- your violin! Did you ever play the violin?"

"Once."

"You had a Stradivarius. A real life million-pound Strad that you took off from someone you met in Cardiff for a few quid. You used to follow me around the flat with it. You were constantly making up silly little songs to pester me, like 'Here's John drinking tea' and "Here's John scowling' and an especially obnoxious one whenever I'd bring home a girlfriend. You had a theme song for Lestrade, another for Mycroft, a ridiculous, high-pitched one for Molly that would make me laugh until I realized how cruel it was. I pointed it out, and you never played it again..."

Khan cocks his head to the side, listening, his expression unreadable.

"Once there was something wrong with your violin. You've never let anyone else hold it before. You'd hide it behind my dresser the second you realized Mrs. Hudson would be going around with a feather duster that day, and you knew she'd never go into my room. I was always tidier than you. But one day, it was broken- you wouldn't admit it, but I think you had relapsed again the night before, and you were too high to realize how tightly you were holding it. But you were busy, and I was there, and you sent me off to get it repaired. Do you understand what that meant to me? During Christmas you left it on the coffee table while you snuck out for a smoke and pitched a fit when Lestrade set his drink down too close. But you trusted _me _while you were away. Me. You loved it."

John waits. Still nothing.

"I never... I never really liked opera." The scar on John's back is burning. He grips the sides of his chair, fighting the impulse to twist and reach for it. "You loved Puccini, Monteverdi, Wagner... You would play in the living room sometimes, by the window while I read. _O Mio Babbino Caro_. That one was your favorite. And you would play other things I'd never heard of and you'd look at me when you were finished and ask me what I thought of them and I never-" John shakes his head, clears his throat. "I don't know why, but it was all I could think about after I lost you. Silly things, like how I shouldn't have gotten so upset every time you didn't run to the grocer's when I asked, or gotten cross when you left your things lying about. I should have paid more attention to your music. After a song you'd stop and look at me and I'd just... nod. Brush it off. And one time I caught you, with a look on your face, as if I'd..." John takes a deep breath. "I didn't realize. I didn't understand just how important it was to you until you were gone. I treated it like a trifle."

And this is when John breaks.

The shock, the grief, the frustration, the loneliness- every feeling John's bottled up since he was forced onto a starship crashes upon him now, and then he's reaching for Khan, fists curled into his shirt, praying desperately to see some kind of recognition in his eyes... but there is nothing. Not sympathy, contempt, or even his usual pity. Khan is still silent, still watching, and John wants to scream that he can't be a superhuman if he isn't human to begin with.

"Goddamn you," John snaps, shaking him. "_Goddamn you. _Are you even listening? Do you have a heart, or did those scientists take that away too?"

Khan is unmoving, inscrutable, and it's absolutely infuriating. John's hands are shaking, his heart hammering in his chest, and they're inches away from each other, and he notices that Khan's lips are slightly parted, and all John can think of is how much he looks like Sherlock-

Suddenly, John kisses him, winding his fingers in his dark hair.

Khan gasps against him, letting out a sound of muffled protest, but John only tightens his grip, holding him still. The chair groans as Khan shifts against his bonds.

"Don't-" Khan growls.

"You remember me, don't you?" John pleads. "You remember us? You have to. Sherlock-"

"I'm not-"

John kisses him again, and this time, to his surprise, he feels Khan reciprocate.

He doesn't dare open his eyes. He tries not to think about Khan's hair, too fine and without Sherlock's curls, and his passive doll's gaze. Khan is nipping at his bottom lip and then he's biting back twice as hard, slipping his tongue into Khan's mouth, hands roving down his chest, beneath his shirt, but Khan starts pulling away and-

"John," he whispers against his skin.

John freezes.

"John," he says again, more urgently, and when John opens his eyes, Sherlock is there, his consciousness fleeting and struggling and thrown asunder.

"...I never told you my first name," John realizes, heart rising with elation. "I never-"

Suddenly, Sherlock convulses, reeling away.

"Sherlock-" John cries out.

"Get your hands off me," he hisses, face contorting with malice. He is Khan again, and John becomes just another Starfleet stranger. "Get away from me," he snarls with such vehemence that John slowly backs away, out of the cell, slamming the door behind him and letting himself slide to the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

Once in his cell, John throws himself on the bed in restless joy. The Enterprise envelops him in its ceaseless thrumming, steady and secure, as if it had been waiting for him to return.

He closes his eyes and brushes his fingers against his lips.

He had kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock had kissed him back. Just when he began to believe all hope was lost, Sherlock had remembered him, and Moriarty, Kirk, the entire crew- they were all wrong.

But the elation doesn't last.

Sherlock had only existed for a second, replaced by an alien who snarled and spat and shook him off with revulsion.

The thrumming becomes a droning, loud and insistent, white noise overwhelming his senses until all he can feel is the wound on his back splitting, sticking him to the mattress.

Kissing Sherlock didn't mean anything. There's no surefire way to get past Khan again, and-

"Hey, Doc?"

Kirk's leaning on the glass door.

"Captain." John bolts up, rubbing his eyes.

"Mind if I come in?"

"Yeah, sure."

Kirk once again takes a casual position in the only chair in the room, propping his legs up on the footboard.

John shifts his weight uncertainly as Kirk's fingers rap a ponderous rhythm against the armrests.

"So!" Kirk exclaims suddenly. "After Spock and I left, what happened with Khan? Did he give up any more information?"

John realizes with horror that there are cameras installed in Khan's cell. Did Kirk see them? Will he be locked indefinitely in this room, or shoved out an airlock?

"Oh, um, yeah, actually. Not about your London though. I mean, the London now. He was talking- _we_ were talking about London in my time- our time- the- 2012?"

"Huh." Kirk nods, but John can tell he's unconvinced. "Look, Doc. The tapes were erased again. It looks like the cameras in Khan's cell are perpetually broken, as our luck would have it. Now I'm trying to ascertain exactly what happened today, and this bullshit won't cut it."

John blinks. "'Bullshit'?"

"This 'London, 2012' thing!" Kirk rises from his seat, fury written across his features. "You're hiding something, I can tell, and to be perfectly honest I think you've been lying about this time-traveling crap too. Now I want answers, dammit!"

"Captain, I-"

" 'Sherlock Holmes.' Khan Noonien Singh. Did you know, when I first heard of him, his name was John Harrison?" Eyes blazing, Kirk advances on John, who backs into a corner with his hands raised. "I've got an Admiral up for treason, a ship running out of steam, a superhuman with twenty names leaving behind a trail of bodies, a war with the Klingons, and _you_." He kicks the chair, and John flinches when it crashes into a corner. "So who are you, Doctor Watson? Are you working for Marcus? For Khan?"

"I'm not working for anybody!"

"Don't play games with me." Kirk grabs fistfuls of John's shirt and slams him against the wall. "Who are you?"

"John Watson-"

"Quit fucking around!"

"I'm not! I'm John Watson-"

"It's Marcus, isn't it? You're his agent-"

"No!" John shoves him away roughly, and for a split second Kirk looks surprised- had he not expected John to fight back?

John tenses, waiting for Kirk's fist to swing.

"No." Kirk stops himself. Sighing, he paces back and forth in the small cell, shaking his head in self-beration. "I'm sorry, Doc. Just… just tell me what Khan said."

Cautiously, John lowers his hands. "He mentioned a doctor that he knew in London, thought I might know him. But I didn't."

"That's it?"

"That's it, yeah."

Kirk's still skeptical, but retrieves the fallen chair and assumes the position he had taken before. "I'm…"

Ashamed.

John hadn't expected that.

"I'm tired," is all Kirk says. "There's a lot going on right now. Everything's imploding at once and Starfleet will never be the same. I don't like..." He swallows thickly. "I don't like not understanding."

"I haven't lied to you about a thing," John says. His voice doesn't waver.

Kirk nods and rubs his eyes. "What's the doctor's name? The one Khan mentioned?"

"Harry... Hooper." In case Moriarty's listening in, it's best to keep real names out of it.

It means nothing to Kirk.

"You were close to him? Whoever you think Khan is," Kirk continues awkwardly.

"He was my best friend." When Kirk merely crosses his arms, glancing critically between John and the barren walls, John ventures, "Are you alright?"

"It's just this Khan business. I can hardly sleep at night. And then Spock-" Kirk bites his tongue.

"What is it?"

"He's being an ass."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Kirk looks at him incredulously.

"Sorry." John lowers his eyes. "...Sherlock was the same way."

Begrudgingly, Kirk allows himself to be looped back into the conversation. "I doubt anyone could compare to Spock."

"Superiority complex? Emotionally detached? Absolutely bloody difficult to work with?"

"I don't think there's anyone in the universe who could match up to Spock."

"You just haven't met Sherlock."

"No, I haven't."

They're back to square one. With a sinking heart, John remembers that Kirk was never his friend.

The captain of the Enterprise stretches and jumps to his feet with a businesslike efficiency. "That's all I had, Doc. See you." He shuts the door softly behind him.

With Kirk gone, the droning of the Enterprise escalates to a roar. John lets himself fall back onto his bed, shuts his eyes, and wills himself to dream of Sherlock and his flat again.

* * *

"_Psst!_"

John jumps. It's Chekov, smiling toothily, bearing an armful of afghans and pillows, and unexpectedly, John's jacket that had been confiscated when they transferred him to this room.

"I'm sorry, sir! Did I disturb you?"

"No. No, just come in." Stomach churning, John slowly eases into a sitting position. What's come over him?

Chekov pauses. "Are you alright, sir?"

"I'm fine-" A sharp pain flares across his abdomen, and his hand flies, clutching his shirt.

"Sir-"

"I said I'm fine." John waves him off. He forces himself to take long, steady breaths, and soon the queasiness subsides. "What's that?"

"For you, sir. I thought you might be cold, as zhey did not give you much. Also, your belongings have been inspected and zhey have determined zat you have not smuggled anything dangerous onto zhis ship. Zhey decided that long ago, but... for a guest, you are not being treated wery well."

"I'm a prisoner, not a guest," John replies, harsher than he intended.

Chekov fidgets apprehensively before settling on, "I know how uncomfortable a cell can be. Zhis blanket is one of zhe few handmade items aboard zhis ship, and when you live in a place where everyzhing is synthesized, it can be a great comfort to…" He shrugs. "If it is not to your liking I can just-"

"No. No, it's fine. That's…" John clears his throat. "That's very kind of you."

With a bright smile that manages to worm its way into John's heart, Chekov arranges his gifts into a neat little pile, John's jacket folded on top, and settles unbidden onto the bed beside him.

"Also…" From between the folds of the afghans, the navigator produces a tin box shaped like a star, containing squares of chocolate. "For you!"

John stares at Chekov and the tin.

"It's real," Chekov urges, reminiscent of Bones with his smuggled whiskey. Chekov watches John keenly as he selects a square and takes a bite.

"It's good," John says, when he realizes what Chekov's holding his breath for. "Fantastic."

"I hoped you'd like it!" Chekov bounces lightly on the mattress. "Sulu got them for me the last time we had leave in San Francisco."

"Is it contraband?"

"Yes," he says, with a little bubble of a laugh that makes John feel old.

Truth be told, the chocolate is rather ordinary. John's certainly had better, but like the whiskey, it grounds him to know that some things, like this recipe, haven't changed.

"Chekov."

"Yes, sir?"

"...thank you."

Chekov only shrugs. Incredible. The kid really doesn't know what he's doing to John, that these little displays of kindness are challenging a lifetime's worth of suspicion against the human race.

"Tell me about your world." Chekov curls up against his small collection of blankets, watching John expectantly.

"That's a lot to cover."

"Zhey are saying a lot of zhings about you, you know." Chekov picks at the afghan's stitches, threading his fingers through the geometric stars blazing across a swirling expanse of blue and black. He toys with it with a fondness that makes John wonder- had he knitted it himself? Or had someone else made it for him, handed it to him the night before he dedicated his life to this ship?

"What have you heard?"

"Zat you know Khan."

"Spock tell you that?"

Chekov does not reply.

"I do know him."

"Doctor-"

"He's my friend. My best friend and roommate Sherlock Holmes."

Chekov blinks, twines his fingers tighter into the yarn. "I do not understand."

"He's an Augment."

"Yes, we know zat. But you are from the 21st century. How-"

"I don't know. I really don't." John groans and buries his head in his hands. There's a light touch on his shoulder- it's Chekov, gripping him gently, and he throws all caution to the wind. "I don't know how I got here. I don't know how my best friend doesn't remember who I am and has all these memories of a life that I'm not a part of. All of a sudden I'm here, and he's a criminal, and you're all telling me he's killed people, and he's done enough to have Kirk after his head. I have nothing to do with Khan. I'm not a- a _terrorist_," he spits the word out, just as Spock would have done. "I want nothing to do with Starfleet. I'm here for Sherlock."

Calmly, Chekov nibbles on his chocolate.

"I tell you all that, and you're lying in my bed like… like it doesn't matter," John says incredulously.

"It doesn't," Chekov replies simply. "I know what kind of man you are, and I'm not afraid of you."

"You believe me?"

"I know zat time travel exists. I know of the Augments and the scientists who created zhem. It is not a stretch to believe zat your friend was kidnapped for zheir experiments, and eizher preserved for centuries, or sent directly to zhis time. It is in our history. He must have been brilliant, yes? From what I have read, zhey only took zhe best of the best."

"Brilliant doesn't begin to cover him."

"Tell me about him." Chekov hands him the tin.

That's another subject that's near-impossible to tackle. "...one look," John decides to say, running his fingers across the pointed rim. The paint is chipped, coming off and rolling onto his fingers, revealing the silver beneath. "One look was all it took for him, and he'd know absolutely everything about you."

"How?"

"He was observant to a fault. He'd look at your hair and know where you'd been last week, and from the shoes you were wearing he'd somehow figure out you had a row with your mother and were expecting to have another that very night. An eye twitch over tea in the morning would tell him you were waiting for the phone to ring. If I opted for oatmeal instead of a muffin, he'd know I recently got turned down, and I was either self conscious about my weight or just too grumpy to really eat. Deciphering the mundane was not a challenge. With a glance, he knew everything about everyone. And he was never wrong."

"I cannot imagine being zat way," Chekov says with awe. He's wrapped himself up in his spangled blankets, toying with the zipper on John's jacket. "To go day by day without a single mystery."

"Mysteries were what he lived for. He put those skills to good use as a consulting detective, and I was his partner."

Without being prompted- Chekov's eager expression is a strong hint- John tells him about the Hounds of Baskerville, Sherlock's fixation with the rabbit that glowed in the dark, and The Woman in Belgravia. Chekov is attentive, asking questions and positing his own theories for the cases, and impressed back into silence when John reveals what he and Sherlock, after dodging the likes of Sally Donovan, Lestrade, a meddling Mycroft, and countless bullets, had actually discovered.

"Have you ever killed someone?" Chekov asks when John has recounted all he can bear and is left to stare at his hands.

"Yes."

"I meant after the Fusiliers. When you were with Mr. Holmes."

"Yes." And John remembers the cabbie, felled with one perfect shot through two windows. "Have you? What does the Enterprise actually do? Military, aren't you?"

"Zhe Enterprise is zhe most celebrated ship in Starfleet. Our primary goal is to explore uncharted territory, and seek out and contact alien life. Starfleet itself is run by zhe Federation, concerning itself with defense, diplomacy, research, and as I mentioned, exploration."

"Then what are you doing with Khan? You're not conquistadors. Yet he's your prisoner."

"After Khan's attack on Starfleet, zhe Keptin requested zat we be sent to capture Khan. We were actually ordered to destroy him, but zhe Keptin decided that it would be fairer to take him back to Earth to be put on trial."

"We're headed for Earth?"

"Yes, sir. We do not currently have zhe means to warp, or we would be zhere already."

"What's going to happen to him?"

"I do not know."

"Life sentence or death, isn't it? For what he did."

"I… I cannot say." The young officer can't look at him.

"How long until we get there?"

"Two, three days at most."

Feeling as if he's been strapped to yet another ticking bomb, John slumps against the wall, feet dangling off the edge of the bed. "Chekov-" he begins.

"Doctor Watson-" Chekov starts at the same time.

"Could you-"

"I'm just doing my job, sir." And Chekov shrinks back, rife with guilt.

"But-"

"Please."

"I…" Chekov sighs. "I am not even zhe one piloting zhis ship. Zat is Hikaru's job."

And Sulu hated him the moment he arrived, so that rules out that option. "You're close, aren't you?" John tries anyway. "You could-"

Chekov shuts his eyes. "Please."

Tremulously, watching his only door slam shut, John relents. "I'm sorry."

"Do not be."

His ability to forgive is astounding.

"Tell me about you," John says. "Where are you from? Or were you born on this ship?"

Mercifully, Chekov awards him a chuckle. "I was born in Pushkino, 30 kilometers northeast of Moscow. When I was fourteen I enrolled in Starfleet Academy. It was either zat, or an engineering school in St. Petersburg. Life in space is a lot more interesting zhan one in snow, so I chose zhe Academy. I graduated in three years- I could have done it in two, but zhey were not yet assigning anyone new to zhe Enterprise, and zat was what I wanted- so I waited."

"Do you ever go home?"

"You are asking about parents."

"I suppose I am, yes."

"Zhey have been dead for a while now."

"Ah."

"I spent most of my life with my aunt and uncle in Tomsk, a town very far from zhe capital. My uncle owned a delicatessen and my aunt was a dressmaker, so zhey were relatively well off. And zheir three children were old enough to watch zhemselves, so I was left alone to do as I liked. Zhere was not much to do in Tomsk except go to zhe library, but it was very small. My parents had left me some money, and although my aunt and uncle were instructed to manage it until I became of age, zhey let me have enough to buy a computer. I made a point to learn one or two zhings a day."

"And now you're here."

"Now we are here."

"_Watson!"_

A sudden yell from down the hall makes Chekov bolt off the bed with terror. John tries not to laugh when a harassed-looking Bones comes into view.

The doctor bangs on the door once. "Chekov! What the hell are you doing here?"

"I came to bring Doctor Watson some..." He falters.

Flinging the door open with enough force to knock down ten men, Bones enters, grabs Chekov by the collar of his shirt, and shoves the navigator out behind him.

"Go see Sulu or something."

"Is Hikaru looking for me?"

"Does it fucking matter? Now out!"

John winces as Chekov shuffles down the hall with the expression of a kicked puppy. "Dammit, Bones, was that really necessary?"

But Bones only commandeers John's chair and stares resolutely out the window. He crosses his legs, foot tapping in the air erratically, and runs his fingers haphazardly through his hair.

"...Bones?"

"I'll apologize to him later, alright?" Bones replies gruffly. "I just need to... What are you doing now? ...dumb question. You're our prisoner. Let's go drink, shoot some darts, eh?"

"Am I allowed? The last guard told me I had a 21:00 curfew. And something about private quarters..."

Bones scoffs. "What will they do, put us in time out? C'mon, the whiskey won't drink itself."

* * *

Within an hour, the two men are well on their way to getting thoroughly plastered. They're playing a casual game of darts in one of the officers' rec rooms- this one's usually empty, Bones informs him, because it had once been home to a rabid Tribble population, and was generally considered to be bad luck ever since Scotty, through Chekov, spread the rumor that it was haunted. John's winning, but not by much, and Bones has taken to cursing him affectionately whenever he scores.

"... so I say to Spock, good thing Chekov didn't try to eat his weight in _tulaberry_ pies!"

John laughs as Bones misses the board again.

The hurt in Bones' eyes earlier gnaws at him; he'd come in grumpier than usual. He decides against his better judgment to pry.

"So, Bones, that thing with Chekov... what was that?"

"Oh." Bones sighs. "I just wasn't in a great mood is all. Shouldn't have taken it out on the kid, though. He deserves better."

"Any reason for the mood swing? You seemed okay at breakfast."

"Breakfast. Hah. The trouble started before then, Watson, old sport," Bones slurs. He leans jauntily against the pool table and drops his dart.

John frowns. "Are you talking about this morning? Chekov and I didn't tell anyone."

Bones cuts John off with a wave of his hand. "The morning was fine. Better than usual, actually. I'll spare you the gory details, but since you seem to have an idea of what's going on-"

"Sort of?"

"Let's just say things aren't as great as they were before this damn paint stained my collar, okay?"

"Okay."

The door rattles.

"Shit! Might be a guard. Get in the closet!"

"The what-"

But Bones is already hustling John into a cupboard. The door doesn't click shut properly. Pressed uncomfortably against a vacuum, John can still manage to see the pool table through the crack.

Someone crosses his vision, stoops, and picks up the dart Bones had dropped, examining it curiously.

"Spock, I _need_ to talk to you."

Kirk?

John covers his mouth with the crook of his elbow, muffling the sound of his breathing.

With delicate fingers, Spock places the dart calmly on the ledge. "Captain, you've made it clear that this is a _personal_ conversation you intend to have. There are no laws in Starfleet mandating that an officer must subject himself to the whims of his superior when they do not concern this ship or our duties."

"Dammit, Spock, cut the 'Captain' crap for a minute. We're friends, aren't we? You're upset and I'm trying to help you. That's what _friends_ do."

Bones shifts against John in the dark.

"I appreciate your concern, but the situation between Lieutenant Uhura and myself is a private matter. I would prefer not to discuss it."

"I saw you after Nero destroyed Vulcan. It's not wrong for me to check up on you when bad things happen, right?"

Spock does not reply.

"Bottle it up inside, then, like you always do." Kirk throws his hands up in exasperation. "You're half-human, you can't pretend that heartbreak doesn't bother you. Goddammit, Spock, will you admit that I'm right for once?"

"Captain, I do not see the purpose behind this conversation. Lieutenant Uhura and I shared a romantic relationship for a year, and it has ended. We will continue to attend to our duties as Starfleet officers. It is a simple concept to grasp. What else is there?"

"I'm just worried about you. A year is a long time to be with someone. It's commitment."

"I assure you that I have the situation completely under control."

"It's not easy being dumped. Trust me, I've been there-"

"Lieutenant Uhura was not the one who ended our relationship."

Jim pauses. "What? Are you saying…?"

"Vulcans do not lie, Captain. You know this."

"Jim. My name is Jim."

"Jim."

"I'm sorry if chasing you here overstepped my boundaries. I've just been so wound up lately. I wasn't thinking."

"We would have spoken about this eventually. I am accustomed to your forwardness and take no offense."

Kirk chuckles. "...I care about you. You know that, right?"

"I suppose it is necessary for you to ensure that your officers are in proper psychological condition."

"You know what I meant."

"I…"

"How long are you going to run from me?" Kirk whispers. He reaches across the pool table, hand closing over Spock's. Spock doesn't pull away. "Why did you leave her?"

"You know why."

"But I want to hear you say it."

"You ask much of me."

"I just need to know that this whole time, you and I… that this wasn't entirely one-sided. That I didn't make it all up in my head."

Swiftly, deliberately, Spock presses his fingertips to the side of Kirk's head, a gesture that John does not understand. Kirk inhales sharply, eyes blown wide.

"You- you really-"

Spock silences him with a kiss.

John's cheeks burn and he pulls his head back so that the two officers are out of view. But he can still hear the breathing, the rustling of uniforms and the undoing of buckles. Soon the breathing turns to moaning and whispering; there's a soft thud as someone falls on the pool table. He wants to cover his ears, give them the privacy they believe they have. But one arm is pinned to the closet wall, and the other is hooked through the the hanger rod to keep himself from falling.

Through the slatted light, John can see Bones, whose eyes are tightly shut.

"My room," Kirk's saying now. "Come on."

The doors slam behind them a second later.

Bones kicks his way out of the closet. "Coast is clear," he says brusquely.

"Bones-"

"Jim suggested today that we end things," Bones blurts out. He staggers against the wall, eyes unfocused, still drunk. "Not that there were things to end."

John extricates himself carefully from the closet, shaking his numb arms and the paper streamers from his shoes. "Sounds complicated."

Bones fishes out the dart, which had been knocked into one of the table's pockets, and flings it blindly at the board. He misses completely, and it falls lamely to the ground with a clink. "We shipped off for Starfleet on the same day. Sat right next to him. And then we were roommates, and after that, the Enterprise... It was all so _convenient_. Funny thing is, before you and Chekov came along, it was probably Starfleet's best kept secret."

"I'm sorry."

"He said it was unprofessional." He glares at the pool table. "Guess I can see why."

"But-" John takes a breath to respond, but is thrust into a coughing fit that leaves him weak and reeling. Gasping for air, he falls to the floor, lungs on fire and throat running raw.

"My God, John, are you alright?" Bones rushes to him, lifting him clumsily.

Weakly, John responds, "Well, between the two of us doctors we should be able to figure it out."

He coughs again, body spasming uncontrollably, and when he pulls his hand away it's covered in blood. It seeps into the cuffs of his shirt and smears onto Bones'.

Bones snaps to attention. Kirk is forgotten.

"My lab. Now."

It is near midnight when Bones finally allows John to return to his room. Bones himself remains hunched over his PADD, flicking through the results in the dark. He says it's still processing, but John doesn't believe him.

* * *

The next morning, at John's request, a guard takes him to Khan's cell.

He's dressed in red, stone-faced and unwilling to engage in any small talk John attempts to throw his way. A gun rests in the holster strapped to his waist. For a moment, John dares himself to dream, fingers twitching at his side, toying with the idea of-

"Here we are, Doctor Watson." The guard salutes and posts himself at the end of the hall, still too close for comfort.

When John enters, Khan, now unbound, mechanically rises from his bed as if to greet him. But he says nothing, gaze flickering between John's face and the back wall.

"…Sherlock?" John ventures when he can't stand the silence.

Khan shakes his head.

John's heart sinks. "But you- yesterday, you- we-"

"I know what we did yesterday," Khan replies softly, and shivers run up John's spine.

There's something different about Khan today. It's the way he seemed to shrink at the mention of his name, and the sorrow with which he denied it. It's the way he watches John, eyes hungry and full of intent. Gone is the haughtiness, the frigid refusals, the steadfast belief that John is anything but deranged. He is beaten, shaken down, and maybe the part of him that remembered John is still there, the part that kissed him back and spoke his name is just below the surface.

"I'm sorry-" John begins.

But Khan closes the distance between them, his lips meeting John's, pressing against him until his back hits the glass. When Khan pulls away, they're both panting, and John's wrists are encased in Khan's hands, crossed above his head.

"I- I'm sorry," Khan blurts out, releasing him instantly as if afraid he's hurt him, but John grabs him by his shoulders, pulling him in for another kiss. They collide with a thud against the white walls, and then Khan is tugging him to the other side of the room until his knees knock against the edge of the bed.

As they fall onto the bed, Khan beneath him, John wonders if it would have been this way in their flat, in a life without the Enterprise. It would have been night, John thinks. They would have come home from a case, veins still coursing with adrenaline, bruised and battered and absolutely exhilarated. It's happened before. Once a stray bullet had grazed John's shoulder and Sherlock had been held at knifepoint. When they returned to Baker Street, both unaware that they were bleeding and still flying high on their success, they ignored the clock chiming the early hour and restlessly paced the living room. John had fretted about, trying to make tea but forgetting to turn on the stove, then remembering he had neglected to fill the pot in the first place, and Sherlock had snatched up his violin bow and was swishing it through the air like a cutlass. They met in the middle, before the fireplace, and Sherlock's bow had frozen in midair, and the detective had an expression on his face John had never seen before, and for a moment, John thought they might-

Khan moans, dragging John back to the present.

They would have worried about waking Mrs. Hudson if they were home. They would have hushed each other, stumbled from the couch to John's room, because Sherlock's was always a frightful mess-

"Bite me," Khan hisses.

John threads his fingers through Khan's dark hair, wrenching his head to the side to nip at his neck.

"Harder," Khan urges him.

John complies, and Khan rolls his hips, making him gasp.

"You don't know how long I've wanted this," John says breathlessly. "Sherlock, I-"

Immediately, Khan tenses, and John remembers who he is.

"I don't-" Khan pauses. "I don't remember you. But I'm trying. Watson, you must believe me. I can feel… Sherlock. He's there, inside me, and it's like he- _I'm_ trying to claw out but I just can't- but when I see you, I-"

John hangs his head. "I don't know what to do." His hands ball into fists, the sheets wrinkling in his grasp. "In a couple days we'll be back on Earth. I can't- I can't lose you. Even when you're like this. Isn't there anything you can do?"

"I don't stand a chance when we get back to Earth," Khan replies simply. Tentatively, he reaches up to stroke the side of John's face. "But maybe…"

"What is it?" Anything. John will do anything.

"The transwarp station." Khan edges towards the wall, lying on his side, and John settles beside him. "It brought you here, did it not? You're a man out of his time. It can bring us back."

"I have no idea how to operate any of this technology."

"I do."

"And you'll come back to London with me? My London?"

"I have nowhere else to go."

As if sensing John's distress, he kisses him fiercely. "I'm trying, Watson," he says, and when he kisses him again, John believes him. "There's just one thing…"

"Yes?"

"My crew. There were others who were taken at the same time I was. Seventy-two of them, to be exact. We were experimented on together, trained together, and cryogenically frozen when the project came under fire. They're aboard this ship, disguised as missiles, and when we return to Earth, I will be put to death and my family will be forever locked away in a Starfleet basement. I know this is a lot to ask of you, but if you could…"

"Yes?"

"I can give you the coordinates to direct the pods they are sealed within to a galaxy far from Earth, to a planet where they can begin their lives anew. I can't leave unless I know they are free."

"And this is… they're important to you?"

"More than anything."

"When?"

"What?"

"When?" John repeats. "When should I do this? How many people are on this ship? When does the captain sleep?"

"There are hundreds of officers on the Enterprise. There will always been someone awake and watching."

"Then how…?"

"Once you give the order, there is no going back. They're missiles, and will be forever out of the Enterprise's reach. It will only take seconds."

"And then…?"

"They won't know what's happened. Their confusion will buy you enough time to return and release me. All I need is one gun, and nothing will be able to stand in our way."

"And then we'll go home?"

"Then we will go home."

Khan presses his forehead against John's and whispers the coordinates that will free his crew. He says them again and again, until John has them down by heart. For a while they lie there together, John's heart hammering in his chest.

"You should go," Khan murmurs just as John nearly drifts off to sleep. "Before the guard comes back."

Regretfully, John eases himself up.

"They're being kept with the weaponry. Deck 3." Khan remains in his bed, lips still flushed from being bitten, with his legs splayed lazily apart. "Your hair…"

John swipes it back into place and straightens his Starfleet uniform.

"Soon," Khan promises him as he takes his leave. "This will all be over soon."

* * *

To John's surprise, the guard who escorted him here is nowhere to be found.

He's too antsy to simply return to his room. He chooses a direction and follows the halls, ducking behind corners when the occasional officer passes. It's not his fault he was left unattended, and the sooner he can release Khan's crew, the better.

He finds Deck 3 easily- the ship is, of course, arranged numerically, and there are signs to help him on his way.

When he finds that the doors are unlocked, he wants to believe it's fate.

They swing open with the lightest touch. John can still feel Khan's hands ghosting over his skin. He's trembling.

He's immediately drawn to the pods, sleek and white, the same size as human coffins. He counts them twice just to be sure. There are exactly seventy-two.

There's a panel beside them, text flashing across its screen, glowing green. John can figure this out. He has to-

"Convenient, isn't it, Johnny?"

The doors slam shut. Moriarty approaches him with a wide grin.

"What are you doing here?" John growls, backing towards the panel.

"The usual, the usual." Moriarty's red Starfleet sleeves are rolled past his elbows, and he smartly shoves his hands into his pockets. "Haven't seen you in a while, John. Now, I wonder… what could you possibly be up to?"

"None of your business." Although John has a feeling he knows exactly what's going on.

"It didn't occur to you, not once, that this was all a little too perfect?"

John collides with the panel. He gropes for it blindly, the coordinates at the tips of his fingers, until Moriarty raises his gun.

"Step away, John."

John taps the first number.

"Johnny," Moriarty says, the pitch of his voice rising with warning, "don't be silly, now. Step away from the controls."

"And if I don't?" John enters the next number.

Moriarty fires, and the beam burns an inch-deep hole into the floor, a hair's width from John's foot.

John lowers his hand.

"There. That's better, isn't it?"

"What do you want?"

"Only to have a little chat with an old friend."

"I'm not your friend."

Moriarty fires again, this time singeing his toes. John yelps and flinches away, the heat sinking through the leather and burning his skin, and his spine slams painfully into the panel. With a giggle, Moriarty sinks to the ground, crossing his legs, and pats the spot before him. "Come on, John. Tell me what's got you so riled up."

The psychopath points the gun at his heart. With a glare, he joins him on the floor, crossing his legs like a schoolboy when the gun is aimed at his feet once more.

"You sent the guard away," John blurts out, unwilling to give Moriarty the satisfaction of labeling him as an idiot.

"And the ensigns, and the nurses, and the captain when he tried to start his usual interrogation session with your terrorist," Moriarty sings. "Have you ever seen Jim Kirk cry? It's a beautiful thing. He's the poster child for daddy issues if I ever-"

"Get to your point."

"You didn't _really _think Khan was going to run away with you, did you?"

"He knew my name the other day. He remembered, and he called me John."

"But did he do that today? No? Oh, Johnny, you poor thing."

"That doesn't mean anything! He just- just-"

"One step forward and two steps back. He asked you to send off his crew, didn't he? Told you he'd come back to your merry England and you'd live happily ever after?" He tries to ruffle John's hair, but his hand is slapped away. "..._no. _John, you didn't!" he gasps. "You slept with him, didn't you?"

"I did no such thing." John's face reddens. "Now stop dancing around and say what you want to say."

"He's playing you," Moriarty says flatly. "He's the Pied-fucking-Piper and you're following him to your grave."

"He knows me," John says obstinately. "He remembers-"

"He's _lying_. Tell me, John, would the real Sherlock ever be so accommodating? So considerate, so absolutely willing? Khan would probably sleep with _me_ if he thought I would prove useful. You've made it obvious you're hot for him, and he'd be damned if he didn't take advantage of that. Whether he actually believes he was once your friend is irrelevant."

"But- for a moment, he-"

"For a _moment_."

John feels sick. "I don't believe you."

"But you'll believe him? Have you forgotten he almost strangled you? You'd be dead and blue right now if it wasn't for me. John, do you actually know what those 'coordinates' do?"

Moriarty strolls over to another panel beside a stack of oblong cases twice John's height.

His fingers dance lightly over the keys, and with a whirring, the cases slide open, revealing the heads of torpedoes. He does it again and again, until half the room's weapons are laid bare.

"It's a code, you fool, not coordinates. He wanted you to wake up his entire crew so they could massacre every living soul in this tin can. If I didn't stop you, you would have singlehandedly exterminated the Enterprise, pet navigator and chummy CMO included."

John shakes his head. He doesn't want to listen, doesn't want what happened in Khan's cell to have simply been a means to an end. But the suspicions that were sown the second he saw Khan this morning are undeniable now. Khan had been pliant, interested, practically saccharine… And now this fiasco with Khan's crew that John had been so sickeningly quick to believe.

"He told me about Mike Stamford," John says, repugnant at the idea that Moriarty is proving to be right all along. "But what about you? What have you got to do with it?"

"I found out about the Augment project years before I met the two of you. When I saw Sherlock, I knew he'd be perfect. He was exactly what they were looking for. Played with him a bit first, as you know, but when I finally traded him in I had enough to buy seven armies, a fleet of warships, a Legolas look-alike, and a basket of Bengal kittens just for kicks."

"You- you sold them Sherlock?"

"I was weak. Money was calling. And he was getting boring."

"What did they do to him?" John demands. "Why doesn't he know who I am? Has he been brainwashed?"

"Brainwashing would imply that there's still something of Sherlock floating around in there. That there's _hope_, as you clearly have succumbed to believing. I do find naivety cute, but I have to tell you- after Sherlock put himself in such a catatonic state, it wasn't hard to mold that beautiful mind into something more sinister."

"You wouldn't do that!" John insists. "You wouldn't destroy your opponent like that, you'd keep him alive and torture him mercilessly."

"Oh, John," Moriarty drawls, looking upon him with pity. "That's exactly what I'm doing."

Numbly, John stutters, "You- you can't mean-"

"You're my new favorite, John Watson," Moriarty announces with delight, as if John's won the lottery. "It's all worked out so well. Why be king of the world when I can conquer the universe? Sherlock was boring, 21st century Earth was boring- so I froze myself and waited for the new age. Khan belongs to me, as does his crew, and when the time is right we'll take the Enterprise and head out for the stars. I admit you were an afterthought, but I do enjoy watching hamsters run on wheels."

"You zapped me here?"

"Who else?"

In the split second that Moriarty lowers his gun, John punches him. There's a satisfying crack, and blood spurts in rivulets down Moriarty's nose. Moriarty wipes his nose on his sleeve, the stains blackening the red fabric, and laughs.

"Glad I could help you get that out of your system. Now up, up, before Montgomery Scott comes in for his lunchtime inspection."

Moriarty marches John back to his room at gunpoint.

"I'll tell Kirk," John snarls as Moriarty slides the glass door shut. "I'll tell-" John suddenly doubles over, body wracked with another coughing fit. Drops of blood splatter across his hand, onto his bed, and through watery eyes he can discern Moriarty leering at him through the glass.

"Are you alright, Doctor Watson?" Moriarty asks sweetly.

Footsteps echo through the hallway. Moriarty tucks his gun back into his holster, shoves his hands into his pockets, and struts away whistling.

* * *

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